Page 15 of An Arranged Marriage with a Cruel Earl (Marriage Mart Scandals #2)

Andrew’s face was a picture of horror, his eyes wide with fear, his lips pressed in a tight line, and his skin drained of colour. Emmeline reached out, instinctively laying her hand on his arm.

“We must go inside,” he said, turning away. His voice was cold, his gaze turned away from her where he focused on the stairs ahead.

Emmeline swallowed hard. Pain filled her heart, warring with the knowledge that he was hurt and afraid and he did not mean to be cruel. She followed him. He raced up the stairs and into the house.

“Where is she?” he shouted, his voice frantic as he marched up the stairs in his riding boots and jacket. “Where is Grandma?”

Mr Pearson was standing beside Emmeline in the entranceway, his expression etched with concern.

“She’s in her chamber,” Mr Pearson said quietly to Emmeline. “We have already fetched the physician. He is there with her now.”

“Thank you,” Emmeline said softly. She hurried up the stairs behind Andrew.

He reached the drawing room ahead of her. As she entered, she noticed the cousins, Lord Epworth and Miss Randell, sitting at the tea table. They had clearly been talking there, huddled, but they looked up at once as Andrew walked in. Their expressions had been furtive, and Emmeline frowned, feeling discomforted at the quick exchange of looks between them. Andrew’s gaze scoured them.

“What happened?” he demanded. “What in Perdition’s name has happened?”

Emmeline went to stand beside him, knowing how close he was to tears. She hoped her presence could comfort him—his grandmother was like a parent to him; his pain and fear for her was clear in his tight, angry voice, the sharp motion of his hand gesture.

“Grandma fell,” Lord Epworth said in a serious voice. “She was in the gallery when a board gave way, and she tumbled down the stairs. She was almost unconscious when we found her.”

“What on Earth was she doing in the gallery?” Andrew demanded angrily. “You know it’s dangerous. How could... ”

“Andrew, you’re distraught,” Miss Randell said gently. “You don’t know what you are saying.” Her voice was a calculated blend of sympathy and control.

“Do not comfort me, Lydia,” Andrew snapped. “Grandma is...is...” He drew a breath. “Has someone sent for the physician?”

“Yes,” Lord Epworth said swiftly.

“Good.” Andrew slumped with relief. He sat down heavily in one of the chintz-covered chairs, resting his head in his hands. Lord Epworth and Miss Randell exchanged glances.

Emmeline drew a breath. “Andrew is tired,” she said swiftly.

“Of course,” Miss Randell soothed.

Emmeline regarded her suspiciously for a moment. Something was not right about Miss Randell and Lord Epworth. She had sensed something the moment she entered the drawing room and saw them talking. She glanced at Andrew. He was sitting hunched over, his head in his hands.

A voice in the doorway made her turn swiftly.

“My lord? The physician is here to speak with you,” Mr Pearson said softly.

Andrew looked up. His face was drawn and tense. “Good,” he whispered. “Show him in at once.”

“Yes, my lord.” Mr Pearson bowed and went out into the hallway.

Emmeline let out a sigh of relief. She glanced at Andrew. He was gazing over at the door and a moment later, a man of middling height with thinning white hair came into the room. He had a thin face and brown eyes, and his hands were wrinkled. He glanced at Lord Epworth respectfully, as if he was the master of the house.

“My lords,” he began somberly. “My ladies. I regret to inform you that Lady Rilendale’s condition is grave. She has lost consciousness.”

“What?” Andrew breathed. Emmeline went to him and rested her hand on his shoulder. She did not think he even noticed her presence. He was staring up at the physician, his eyes wide and round with disbelief. “What do you mean?”

“She is unconscious, my lord,” the physician repeated. “Her pulse is stable, her breathing slow. There is little I can do before she wakes. The blow to her head was quite severe. I have an ointment that can help reduce the swelling, but apart from that...” he trailed off. “There is naught to do before she wakes. ”

“I am going to see her,” Andrew declared. He stood up and walked out of the room, ignoring the physician, who held out a hand as if to discourage him.

Emmeline stood where she was, beside the chintz-upholstered seat where Andrew had just been sitting. Lord Epworth was standing over by the window on her left, and she saw the physician’s gaze move to his again.

“If I may, my lord, might I talk to you?” the physician asked Lord Epworth.

“Of course,” Lord Epworth said at once. He walked across the room and the two of them went out of the door together. A frown creased her brow. Something about the way the physician had instantly sought out Lord Epworth bothered her. She knew nothing of the family and their history with the physician—perhaps he and Andrew had an argument and there was a well-known dislike between them—but that instant connection, and the way they went out into the hallway, heads bent close together as if they were whispering secrets, was unsettling.

She stood and went to the door, following them out. They had gone to the end of the hallway, and she planned to go closer, to see if she could hear anything, but a hand settled on her shoulder. She turned immediately.

“Lady Rilendale,” Miss Randell said softly. “I am so sorry. You must be distressed for Andrew.”

“Yes,” Emmeline replied, her frown deepening. “Yes, I am.” It was strange that Miss Randell had tried to stop her.

“Forgive my intrusion,” Miss Rilendale said at once. “But I had to speak with you alone.”

“Yes?” Emmeline asked abruptly. She realised that she did not like Miss Randell either, not really—she was too interested in Emmeline’s story, too ready with her interrogations. She held that dark gaze firmly with her own, trying to guess what was behind that smooth, unruffled expression.

“I had the urge to confide my fears in you,” Miss Randell whispered. Emmeline’s frown deepened.

“Fears?” she demanded loudly. “What fears?”

Miss Randell winced as if she wished her to whisper too. “It is something I would not dare to voice aloud,” she continued in hushed tones. “But I fear that I must. I am suspicious about the circumstances around Grandma’s fall. ”

“What?” Emmeline hissed. She gazed at the woman in shocked surprise. “How so?”

“Well,” Miss Randell whispered. “I know that it is no secret that Andrew may have poisoned his grandfather. What if he is responsible for Grandma’s injury, too? A fall down the stairs? Perhaps it was meant to end her.”

“What?” Emmeline gaped. “No. No. I do not believe that,” she whispered, though already her heart was racing. “He would not. Besides, he was not here,” she added, her mind grasping for possibilities. She did not want to believe it, and her mind fought to find contradictions to Miss Randell’s suggestion.

“He might have ordered a servant to prepare something. A loose floorboard, perhaps. Or mayhap even to give her a small push. Who knows?” Miss Randell asked, eyes round.

“No,” Emmeline said swiftly. “No. I do not believe it,” she repeated, though her stomach ached with nausea. What if Miss Randell was right? It would be altogether too easy to prepare something like that, especially with the house in disrepair. And with only his cousins in the house, nobody would think to blame herself or him.

Miss Randell lifted a shoulder. “I only confide what I suspect,” she said softly.

Emmeline shook her head again, trying not to let those words affect her. “You did well to tell me,” she said soothingly. She did not like Miss Randell, but the woman’s dark eyes were round with fear, and she could only feel sorry for her.

“Thank you. I am glad you say so. I would not like to meddle,” Miss Randell murmured softly.

Emmeline took a deep breath. “I will go and see where Andrew is,” she said, her voice firm with resolve.

Miss Randell nodded and said nothing, and Emmeline hurried from the room.

She walked up the hallway to where she knew Lady Rilendale’s chambers were. She knocked softly at the door, but nobody answered, and she paused, not sure whether she should go in and disturb Andrew. The door opened after a minute.

“She’s sleeping,” Andrew said, his voice shaking with unshed tears. “I shall retire to my room a moment. ”

“Of course,” Emmeline said, her heart twisting with care. He looked so tired suddenly, his cheeks seeming more sunken than usual, his blue eyes tight at the edges. She swallowed hard. “Will you join us for luncheon?” she asked, her voice strained as her stomach churned, reminding her that it had been hours since she last ate. It must be close to one o’clock already.

“No,” Andrew said briefly. He was already walking down the hallway. “I will see you later. Perhaps at dinner.”

Emmeline stood in the hallway, watching him walk swiftly towards his bedroom. His footsteps sounded loud in the silent, empty corridor.

She paused with her hand above the door handle and then drew a deep breath and went in.

Lady Rilendale was lying on her back, her soft white hair pale in the lamplight. A fire roared in the grate, making it hot in the room. The dowager countess was not sweating, though. She was not moving. Emmeline gasped when she saw her forehead. It was dark with bruising, and her one hand, also, she noticed, was a purpling mass of bruises. She must have reached out to protect her face as she fell and then slipped down the stairs. The white nightgown she wore had a high neck, the sleeves reaching a little beyond her elbows, so it was impossible to see if there were any other bruises on her body.

“I’m so sorry you’re so badly hurt,” Emmeline said softly, knowing that the older woman was unconscious. She still needed to say it. “Please get well soon,” she added, her throat too tight for words. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she cuffed them away, turning to go to the door. Something about Lady Rilendale lying there, so motionless, reminded Emmeline of her father’s final days. She opened the door and went out, closing it softly, and then fled up the hallway to her chamber, tears running down her face.

In the quiet of her room, she pressed her trembling hands to her face and whispered aloud, her voice thick with grief, “She must recover. She simply must.” Her heart ached with a mix of emotions—grief for the countess, who had become a cherished friend in just two weeks, for Papa, whose loss still weighed heavily on her, and for Andrew, whose pain she felt as keenly as her own.

“I don’t believe Miss Randell,” she said aloud in the silence. “I don’t.”

She took a deep breath. She was trying to defy those words, trying to silence them. Did she really believe it? She was not sure .

It would have been easy for Andrew to arrange for the accident to happen when he was out of the house. As Miss Randell had suggested, a servant could have been paid to push the dowager countess down the stairs. But who on the staff would betray the countess? It was not as though the servants were motivated by money only, or they would not be working there.

She took a deep breath, feeling confused and frightened. The dowager countess herself had said that Andrew had nothing to do with her husband’s death. She loved her grandson devotedly, so she would not want to believe it and would seek another explanation. But she could just as easily be right.

“Perhaps she just fell,” Emmeline reminded herself aloud. That was, after all, the easiest explanation. The house was rickety in places, and it was quite easy to imagine there being a loose floorboard on the stairs up to the gallery.

Perhaps I should go and see for myself, she thought. That would be the best place to begin.

She was sitting on her bed, and she sank back on the cushions, her mind swirling with confusion, exhaustion, and a deep, gnawing sense of dread. She shut her eyes and after a few moments, she drifted off to sleep.

She woke with a jolt. Someone was knocking at the door. Her first thought was fear and she sat up, her head pounding with a headache from daytime sleep.

“Who is it?” she demanded, hastily tucking a stray curl out of her eyes. It was darker in the room, the late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the west-facing window. She blinked confusedly—she must have slept for at least three hours.

“It’s Miss Fullman,” her maid replied. “Sorry to disturb. Miss Randell wished me to check on you, my lady.” Miss Fullman’s face showed disapproval.

Emmeline smiled reassuringly. “I’m all right,” she told her gently. “I just fell asleep. I must have missed luncheon,” she added ruefully. Her stomach was empty and churned painfully at the thought of food.

“Yes, my lady. It’s almost four of the clock. Would you like me to bring you something on a tray?”

“Please,” Emmeline said swiftly. She did not wish to see the cousins yet—not while she was still so confused and while her head still ached .

“Yes, at once, my lady. Tea and pastries? Or something from luncheon?” she asked.

“Tea and pastries. Please,” Emmeline breathed gratefully. The tea would clear her head and the thought of pastries made her stomach groan with appreciation.

She tidied her appearance while Miss Fullman withdrew to fetch the tea, and when she appeared again, ten minutes later, Emmeline had fixed her hair, tucking it into a simple bun as she used to when she sneaked into the house from an afternoon ride. Her mother sometimes chided her, but Papa had always smiled.

“Here we are, my lady,” Miss Fullman said warmly. “Shall I put it here?” she asked, gesturing to the desk in the corner.

“Yes. Thank you.”

When she had the room to herself, she sat and sipped the tea and ate the pastries, her mind racing over the implications of the morning. Oddly, despite the dire whispering of Miss Randell, the thing she was focusing on again and again was not Lady Rilendale’s fall, but her own morning ride with Andrew. She could not shake the memory of his strong hands on her waist, or the intensity in his gaze as it lingered on hers.

She heard him call her “dear”, recalling the memory over and over again. She blushed and her heart filled with warmth.

Mayhap he was a murderer, she reminded herself. But she could not quite believe it. Not when he was so beautiful, so kind.

“Maybe you’re being foolish,” she told herself aloud. Amelia had been terrified of him, and her terror had not wavered, after all.

She sighed and poured another cup of tea and drank it, then stood.

She would go and check on Lady Rilendale again.

The afternoon passed silently. Dinner was brief and Andrew did not join the guests. Emmeline gave up trying to keep up lively conversation and they ate in tense silence. As soon as possible, she excused herself and retired to her chamber to rest.

“Goodnight, my lady,” Miss Fullman murmured after she had combed Emmeline’s long hair and helped her to change into her nightgown.

“Goodnight,” Emmeline called, snuggling into the warm bed. She had left the candles and lamps burning and she reached for a book to read, planning to read for an hour or two and then try and sleep.

Sleep did not come. It might have been the pastries and tea, the tension at dinner or her fresh worries and fears for Andrew. She read the book from cover to cover—it was a short novel, one of the playful, overly romantic ones she and Amelia used to read and giggle over. She tossed and rolled over and then slipped silently out of bed.

Reaching for her nightgown, she shrugged it on and slipped her feet into silk slippers, then headed downstairs. It was dark in the hallway, and she guessed it was ten o’clock, or thereabouts. She tiptoed down the stairs, grateful that someone had left lamps in the entranceway so that the faint glow made it possible to see the stairs.

She headed past the dining room, going to the library. She had explored it once, briefly, with the countess, and she knew there were a few novels in there. She needed something else to read, something to take her mind off her fears.

She opened the door and tiptoed in. To her surprise, there was a lamp still burning and a fire still flickered in the grate at the end of the room. She turned to the door, then her entire body went rigid with fear as she heard a footstep on the boards by the shelves in the corner.

A cry rose to her lips, and she turned to flee, but the sound of a familiar voice stopped her in her tracks—surprised, yet gentle.

“Emmeline?” Andrew said. “What are you doing here?”