Page 40 of Tempted (Heart to Heart Collection #2)
Chapter 40
Manchester
“M y sweetest Jane, you make the most beautiful bride in the world. I hope Mr Bingley knows how lucky he is.” Elizabeth kissed her sister on the cheek then stood back, clasping Jane’s fingers and admiring her.
Jane blushed. “Oh, Lizzy, you would say that if I had warts and wore sackcloth. Really, do I look well?”
Elizabeth held up a looking glass. “You look like the angel Mr Bingley always says you are. See for yourself.”
Jane gingerly touched the edges of her hair, the lace of her gown, and smiled bashfully into the mirror. “I cannot believe that is me. Only think what Mama would say!”
“Oh, we would never hear the end of it. The entire country would know by nightfall how many roses you carried and the size of the pearls you wore. I do think the pearls a fine choice, by the way, even if the countess says they are too mournful for a wedding.”
Jane’s eyes fell to the reflection of her neckline, and her fingers trailed the watery beads. “For Papa. Charles was so thoughtful in giving them to me.”
“And that goodly man is anxiously awaiting his angelic bride. Come, dearest, let me help you with your veil.”
Jane was, indeed, a perfect vision. Elizabeth could hardly take her eyes away as her sister took her place in the front of the church, passed her bouquet to Elizabeth, and then pledged herself to love and honour Mr Bingley.
The one sight more alluring than Jane’s beauty was William, standing opposite the couple. Tall and robust, striking in every look and move, he almost appeared as one of the Greek heroes of old. She thrilled in looking at him, for though any woman would be proud to be seen on his arm, it was herself he watched with warm, almost heartsick longing. It was she who knew just how smooth that proud jawline was, how easily his meticulous curls turned wild with the lightest caress, and how tender those penetrating blue eyes could be. And it was she who could twist the delicate ring of his troth round her finger.
Elizabeth was not blind to the curious, and occasionally noxious glances cast her way from some of the onlookers. Mr Bingley’s sister had been one of the most pronounced examples—a barely concealed sneer, a veiled invective regarding her background, and a marked attempt to draw William’s attention and approval to herself. Fortunately, Elizabeth had been warned beforehand about Caroline Bingley and others like her. And, fortunately, she was secure in the loyalty of her lover and the stout-hearted support of Lord and Lady Matlock. And so, all the poison-tipped arrows fell as only harmless petals round her feet as she gloried in Jane’s happiness and the anticipation of her own.
The nuptials were consecrated, and the celebratory meal commenced. Elizabeth, seated nearest William, found much amusement in the way others stared at and then conspicuously whispered about her. Even Lady Matlock noted it, leaning near Elizabeth’s ear with her fan raised. “They would not be half so resentful if you were not ten times prettier than any of them. They may be caked with rouge and primped within an inch of their lives, but my dear, you do not require such enhancements.”
Elizabeth thanked her with a laugh and turned her attention back to the happy couple. Others might posture and repine, but for herself, she meant only to think on the day as it gave pleasure. Until, that was, an urgent message arrived for Lord Matlock as he was drinking his champagne.
The earl’s features turned grey upon reading it. He looked immediately to Elizabeth, then William, and he rose hastily. “Forgive me, Mr Bingley, Mrs Bingley,” he said in a low voice. “I am very sorry, but I must go at once—it cannot be helped.”
Elizabeth turned to William. Dread knifed through her stomach when she saw the tight crease round his mouth, and the barest tremor pass over his features. She thought he would rise at once and follow his cousin, but he firmly clasped her hand under the table. “I think we are both wanted,” he whispered.
Dismayed, she followed him, with a pleading look for Jane to forgive her for stepping out. “I will be back,” she mouthed. Surely, nothing could be that important, that it would call her away for the remainder of the festivities. But as soon as they came out of the room, the earl was beckoning them to himself with a look that would not be gainsaid.
“My carriage,” Matlock ordered the footman. “Tell them to step quickly!”
“What is this all about?” Darcy demanded.
The earl’s only response was a thinning of his lips, a hardening of his flinty grey eyes.
“Reginald,” Darcy hissed. “We cannot leave in the middle of the wedding feast!”
“Stow it, Darcy. We are for the next train out of Manchester, if I have to gag and bind you.”
Darcy and Elizabeth exchanged astonished glances, and his fist started to clench.
“My lord,” Elizabeth reasoned, resting a staying hand over William’s, “surely Lady Matlock would wish to join us. Shall we not at least take our leave properly and call for our bags?”
Matlock’s gaze rested on her—his teeth strangely visible behind a pained grimace, his chest rising in rapid gasps. “We will talk in the carriage.”
Outrage simmered in William’s countenance, but he was all gentleness with her. “Call for your maid to send down a warmer wrap,” he urged her. “I would not see you take a chill.” With a daggered look at the earl, he added, “Are you certain Elizabeth must leave her sister on her wedding day? Surely, I can attend—”
“It is Elizabeth who must come,” Matlock snapped. “Inviting you was a courtesy, and one I may regret.”
Hot nausea coiled in Elizabeth’s belly. He knew . Someone had informed on her, told of her secret. Now, the earl who had protected her, offered her a place in the world and dignity that was not her own, was casting her out. Common sense tried to edge into her thoughts—after all, who could have known? And why now? But guilt was heavier, remorse more powerful, and so when William slipped his hand over hers, she clasped it with desperation and a passionate hope that her assumptions might be wrong.
The carriage came around at last, and the earl barked out a command to drive to the station. Elizabeth was wedged beside Darcy, their hands laced tightly together. The earl frowned at this, then set his teeth and said nothing until they were well on the road.
“Very well, Reginald,” William bit out. “We are safely off with nary an explanation. Care to tell us what this is all about?”
Matlock sighed and withdrew the note. He did not share it but read it carefully once more before folding it and putting it away again. “It is possible,” he answered in a weak voice, “that it is all nothing, but…”
“Who sent the note?” Elizabeth asked. “Where are we going?”
“The note is anonymous, but the content is… if it be true, it changes everything. We are going to Liverpool, and after that, Heaven only knows.”
Darcy scowled in vexation. “I have had enough of this mystery. What are we going to find?”
The earl’s mouth worked, and he glanced between them. “Richard may be alive.”
Liverpool
D espite his cousin’s oblique glances and discordant sighs—or perhaps because of them—Darcy hovered protectively over Elizabeth as they entered the ageing harbour-side inn. By the way she leaned faintly into his fingers at the small of his back, the way her neck arched back and her steps dragged each time he paused, he sensed she craved his support as much as he yearned for hers.
Reginald went to the innkeeper and made a low request. When the man shook his head and motioned for them to leave, the earl withdrew several coins and placed them on the man’s counter. More words, more denials, more coins… and with a reluctant grumble, the innkeeper, at last, dumped Reginald’s silver in his pocket and motioned for them to follow him.
Elizabeth looked up at him as they entered the darkened hall. He could read everything in those liquid eyes—fear mixed with hope, denial swirled into concern. Her lips parted. “William,” she whispered… then there was nothing more to say.
Something buried far down in the fathoms of his being tore loose—a shaken sigh, a broken nod, and he murmured assurances he never felt—if only so the dread in his heart did not consume her as well. “Come, love. It will be well.”
The innkeeper stopped them at a door that looked like it led to a storeroom. “‘E were bound for Glasgow. ‘E took sick and th’ captain put ‘im off ‘ere. Been ravin’ like a demon ‘alf th’ nights.” With a glance at Elizabeth, he added, “Best no’ let th’ lady see.”
“I will decide that once I have seen him,” Reginald answered crisply. “Open the door, man.”
The hinges creaked, revealing a narrow room lit only by an old-fashioned lantern. A man’s form lay still as death upon a made-up pallet, and the stink of a putrid fever hung thick in the room. Reginald stepped cautiously in, but Darcy drew Elizabeth’s shoulders to his chest, her head under his chin. A slight whimper escaped her, and he began, unconsciously, to rock her body and hum soft reassurance.
Reginald pulled back a cover, and Darcy heard a gasp of revulsion and horror. The man on the pallet moaned as Reginald leaned over him, picking up the lantern to examine him more closely. Then, Reginald Fitzwilliam, ninth Earl of Matlock, released an eerie cry of anguish and sank to his knees beside the sick man.
Elizabeth started first. Darcy could hardly have restrained her, even if he had not been stumbling forward himself. They nearly charged in together, flanking Reginald. Darcy went to the man’s head and with trembling fingers, brushed a hank of sweat-soaked hair off his brow.
An emptiness gazed back where the man’s left eye used to be.
Darcy nearly yelped in dismay but forced himself to remain steady—though he felt ill just looking upon the poor wretch. Gently, he tipped the man’s face towards him on the pillow, provoking a low groan in a voice as familiar as his own.
He looked up sharply at the others. Reginald’s features were awash with pity and amazement, Elizabeth’s with foreboding and hope. Darcy snagged the lantern out of his cousin’s hand and looked down at the profile on the bed. Scarred and feverish, half-conscious, and ill-nourished, it was a face he would know even beyond the grave. He placed his hand on the man’s brow, and tears streamed from his eyes.
“Richard… good God, what have they done to you?”
W ith the help of the innkeeper, they secured a doctor who agreed to attend Richard on his journey to Matlock. He had not roused enough to recognise anyone, and his fevered agony was such that the doctor recommended morphine to keep him more comfortably sedated. The earl hired a special carriage to transport him to the train station, and two private cars all the way to Matlock. They set out at dawn the next morning.
“From what I can piece together,” Reginald told them, “Richard was lucid enough—though barely so—that he paid the innkeeper extra when he arrived to keep his presence secret until he was well enough to travel on.”
“But why would he do that?” Elizabeth asked. “Why did he not send word to us, or come home to be brought back to health?”
To this, the earl could only shake his head.
“What I want to know,” Darcy put in, “is who sent you that note. Obviously, it was not the innkeeper. Did he say what ship Richard sailed on? Perhaps someone knew him from there.”
Reginald had dropped his head into his hands—weary from the sleepless night they had all passed—but he looked up. “The ports are crawling with all manner of men. Gentry, soldiers, and riff-raff alike. Anyone could have recognised him. Does it matter who sent the note? I bless whoever it was.”
Darcy sighed. “As do I, but do you not think something odd in all of it?”
“Look, Darcy, all I know is my brother was lost, and now he is found. I hope that brings you as much relief as it does me.” He punctuated this remark with a hard stare.
“Of course, it does,” Darcy snapped. “How could you think I would not be overjoyed to discover him alive?”
Reginald merely snorted and shook his head. “Right.” He crossed his arms and closed his eyes, leaning his head against the side of his box in an abrupt end to the conversation.
Elizabeth had remained coolly withdrawn. She rode beside him as before, but her figure was straight, rather than leaning into him. Her complexion was nearly waxen, with bloodless cheeks, unnaturally red lips, and a dewy sheen that testified to her tearful night. Her eyes were all that moved, roving about the carriage with the heaviness of a weighted chain—dragging his thoughts through every rift and valley with them.
How he longed to tear the lid off his turmoil and empty his feelings to her! Not a second had they shared alone since those few minutes before the wedding the previous day—a lifetime ago. But even without that coveted moment alone with her, they had spent enough hours aligning their spirits and exploring each other’s thoughts that a mere look sufficed to know all. If only she would look at him.
Reginald’s head was now leaning heavily against the wall as the train gently rocked. His throat rattled, and his jaw fell slack. At least he would have some rest. Darcy’s hand strayed to Elizabeth’s, but when he brushed her fingers, he found them rigid.
“William…” She blinked, and he caught the glitter of a tear trembling at the edge of her lashes. “I—”
“Elizabeth, stop,” he whispered. “I beg you—let us not speak yet.”
Her mouth tightened. “How does it matter when we speak of it? We both know…”
“Elizabeth, I need you now. Just as you come to me with your sorrows and your trials, I need you—I need my friend and my love. Please, do not pull away from me yet.”
The tear fell free and slipped down her cheek—a fleeing phantom, leaving a trail of anguish in its wake. “William, it will only make it worse.”
“ Worse? ” he repeated. “We have arrived at ‘worse’ and are descending quickly into the morass. How can I not be euphorically happy that a man who was a brother to me has returned from the dead? Yet how can I rejoice when I lose my own life the very moment he reclaims his?”
Elizabeth sniffed and shook her head numbly. She tried to speak, but only a garbled mewl sounded.
He touched her cheek, grazing her soft skin with his thumb as he had so often done. Another tear escaped, and he softly kissed it away. “Only a little longer, my dearest Elizabeth. Let me hold you one more hour before I have to let you go.”
She broke, strangled cries rending her body, and she crumpled to his shoulder. “Oh, my William!” Damp lashes brushed his cheek, her breath hot on his neck as she sobbed. Darcy braced both arms around her, clinging to her for these last few moments with all the hope left in him.