To Love a Lord: A Victorian Romance Collection Page 4

  Chrissakes, when in his life had he ever envied anyone anything? His entire life he’d had everything at his disposal simply for the taking.

  She straightened to her full height and seemed to be assessing him. “I don’t believe you,” she said suddenly.

  “Why not?”

  “Because.” Her expression was smug now. “You should be so fortunate to exchange even glances with that man. You aren’t fit to wipe his boots. That you breathe the same air is a blasphemy in itself.”

  Merrick blinked at her declarations.

  Two things struck him in that instant. One, she had absolutely no notion of her connection with the inestimable Hawk. And two, she didn’t seem to like her own husband very much.

  In fact, he’d like to have wholeheartedly agreed with her assessment of Lindale, but her accusations seemed somewhat more personal than they should have been, considering that she wasn’t even talking about Merrick. She was talking about Lindale—who was, in fact, Hawk. Be damned if the madness of the situation didn’t entirely amuse him, even despite that her vehemence was directed, for the moment, squarely at him. “Is that so?” he asked wryly.

  “Yes, of course. He is everything you are not.”

  Slack-jawed, Merrick sat, not bothering to cover his bare chest. Why trouble himself? She’d already had an eyeful.

  She gasped at the sight of him, and turned to go, suddenly and conveniently embarrassed by the sight of him.

  “And what is it that I am?” he asked, baiting her. He didn’t want her to leave just yet.

  She turned to face him again, clearly far too tempted by the opportunity to gut him, and lifting a hand to her face, covering her eyes as she spoke. But the flush in her breast returned, followed by the one in her cheeks. And yet, she didn’t cow. Her mettle brought a smile to Merrick’s lips. “I shall be most pleased to make you a list,” she apprised him, and then added, “After you do me the courtesy of covering yourself, Lord Lindale.”

  He ignored her request. “Make me a list,” he dared.

  “Are you decent?”

  More so than he’d like to be. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I warrant tis nothing you haven’t seen numerous times before,” he told her quite pointedly, and waited for her to deny it.

  She parted two fingers only slightly, peeking through, then closed them again with a soft gasp. “You are so crude!”

  “Crude?” And yet, she didn’t deny his allegation.

  “And rude!” she added, but she didn’t turn to leave, he noticed. In fact, he thought he saw her peek yet again through those long, delicate fingers—fingers that had touched him only moments before.

  “Go on,” he encouraged. As a test to see if she was looking, he let the coverlet fall further.

  She gasped softly and his smile deepened. “I should say you are selfish, arrogant, spoiled, ungrateful, vulgar—shall I continue, my lord?”

  “No, I think I get the idea,” he relented, but with a smile.

  “Yes, well, now, I am leaving,” she informed him tersely. “Because I cannot bear to remain in your presence yet another instant, my lord!”

  “What about Hawk?” he asked, his lips tipping upward when she made no move to leave.

  “Hawk?” She sighed audibly, making him frown. “Well, of course, he is beloved, kind, compassionate, generous, charitable, noble, brave—”

  With every endearing adjective, she lost a note of shrewishness; her tone becoming even wistful.

  Merrick’s smile vanished completely. “I thought you were leaving,” he said. Her defense of the bugger irritated him more than it should have.

  “I am leaving,” she assured.

  “If you must know, he is nothing but a common thief,” Merrick told her. “There is absolutely nothing noble about the man. He robbed me and left me to die where I lay.”

  He thought she rolled her eyes, but they were still covered, and he couldn’t tell. “You were hardly in danger of bleeding to death,” she assured, unmoved. “It was only a scratch.”

  “Really?” His fingers sought his wound for validation. “Scratches don’t require stitching,” he protested.

  Damn, but was he looking for pity? He didn’t deserve the contempt she was giving him.

  Hawk did.

  “Oh, yes, it should scar quite nicely,” she said, sounding smug as she turned her back to him at last.

  Heartless vixen.

  “And so long as we are discussing the matter so freely,” she added, casting him a dark glare over her shoulder, “I believe justice was served last night—a lesson to you for running out so rudely on your mother’s birthday celebration. Now, if you will excuse me, Lord Lindale, I shall go and inform the constable you are eager to see him.”

  His mother’s birthday celebration?

  Her declaration rendered him speechless.

  As though his eyes were drawn to it, he peered across the room, noticing for the first time the portrait of a woman in her youth. It was the same woman in the portrait his father guarded so fiercely. She was unmistakable in her elegance. He blinked, glancing back at the fiery angel paused in the doorway, and was struck at once by the truth.

  It was no accident of nature that he and Hawk looked so remarkably alike that no one seemed able to tell them apart.

  Pure emotion barreled through him, the force of it so intense that he was relieved he was lying down. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

  His angel marched from the room, leaving him to stare after her, stunned by his epiphany.

  Hawk was his brother.

  And his mother… she was… alive.

  Ryo had known, damn the man to hell. That’s why he’d tried so hard to keep Merrick from going to Glen Abbey Manor. It was also why he’d delayed their arrival as long as he’d dared and then bolted away at the first opportunity… probably thinking Merrick was still aboard, no doubt. He was like to be halfway to London by now… with his brother in tow.

  When the haze cleared from Merrick’s thoughts and he looked up again, his fiery angel was gone.

  Leaping from the bed, he called, “Wait!” But he didn’t know her bloody name and she didn’t stop.

  Chapter 4

  How dare he look at her as though she’d rent his heart from his breast! Chloe seethed as she made her way to the drawing room, vexed with herself for feeling remorse where Lord Lindale was concerned. Why should she regret harsh words when he deserved to feel wretched?

  In the drawing room she discovered Lady Fiona engaged in a heated discussion with Constable Tolly, refusing to give quarter. She smiled softly as she watched the mistress of Glen Abbey Manor at work. She guarded her privacy and her son like a lioness. And despite her threats to the contrary, she would no more betray Lord Lindale’s state than she would ever betray Lady Fiona.

  “My son will be most pleased to receive you on the morrow,” she assured the constable. “However, today I shall not allow it.” When he opened his mouth to protest, she said, “Please forgive me if you feel thwarted. That is not my intention. However, my son’s wellbeing is my utmost concern at the instant. Tomorrow,” she apprised him again.

  The constable stood with his hat in hand, his face florid with agitation. “My lady,” he pleaded. “How will I capture this brigand if you and the rest of Glen Abbey refuse to cooperate? You above all in this town should be most concerned after what he has done to you.”

  He was referring to her crippled legs, and he straightened uncomfortably, rising to his full height, clearly chagrined over having to mention it.

  To no one’s surprise, his awkward attempt to cow Fiona failed miserably. She was as unrelenting as the constable was persistent.

  Unable to rise to the occasion, Lady Fiona straightened in her chair, clearly agitated. “Rest assured, it is my full intention to cooperate with your investigation, William. As you recall, I gave you a full report when I encountered the cad myself. But I simply cannot allow you to disturb my son wh
ilst he recovers, and that is that!”

  “But, madame!” the constable protested still. “The time to debrief Lord Lindale is now, while the incident is freshly impressed upon his brain. Not later, when time has eaten away at his memory like maggots.”

  “I beg of you, do not be so melodramatic!” Lady Fiona charged him. Her usually pale complexion bloomed as her fury rose. “And by the by, what incident is it you are speaking of?” she asked him, tapping her nails firmly against her wheeled chair. “I was told my son fell off his bloody horse!”

  The constable gasped at her blasphemy. Lady Fiona never lost her sense of propriety. Still, he persisted. “Attempted robbery, my lady. We have reason to believe there may have been one.”

  “Really?” Chloe asked, lifting her brows. “Did someone report a robbery?”

  The constable finally noticed her standing in the doorway. For an instant he considered his answer.

  “Not precisely, Miss Chloe, but last evening there were reports of a strange vehicle in the area—headed toward Glen Abbey Manor. Today that vehicle seems to have utterly vanished. It obviously did not arrive at its destination, nor was it registered at the inn.”

  Chloe chewed her bottom lip, contemplating whether to reveal Lord Lindale’s confession.

  “I rather hoped Lord Lindale might shed some light on the mystery.”

  “What leads you to believe the carriage was bound for Glen Abbey Manor?” Chloe asked.

  “Miss Chloe,” he said impatiently. “No one ventures this way anymore unless they are bound for Glen Abbey Manor. It is the only estate left of any consequence.”

  “I see,” Chloe said. That was true. Thanks to Lord Lindale’s avarice, Glen Abbey was, indeed, a withering township. Too far inland to serve as a port town, and nearly inaccessible by land, the town had far too few resources, very little industry and a landlord who was intent upon collecting and spending every last farthing from his tenants.

  The constable pleaded, “I beg you, Lady Fiona… that brigand is the very ‘seed of corruption.’”

  “Please, William,” Lady Fiona said, rolling her eyes. “Spare us the theatrics.”

  Chloe tried not to smirk. It was no wonder the constable felt frustrated; his sentiments were hardly shared by the townsfolk here. And knowing that Hawk’s efforts brought food to the mouths of babes, Chloe held her tongue.

  If Lord Lindale wished to speak against Hawk, he would need do so himself.

  Lady Fiona stood her ground. “I never said we would not cooperate, Constable. I only appeal to your sense of decency. Come back tomorrow!”

  The constable was by now apoplectic. “Very well, you leave me no choice.” He smashed the derby upon his head. “Good day!” he said smartly, and spun on his heels toward the door. “Good day to you, Miss Chloe.” Taking his leave of the drawing room, he paused in the foyer to speak briefly with Edward. Chloe watched them with great interest, wondering when those two had become so friendly.

  “I have absolutely fizzled,” Lady Fiona said, turning Chloe’s attention from the low-speaking pair at the door. “I believe I shall take myself out to the garden to enjoy the remainder of my morning.”

  “Yes, madame,” Chloe said, still distracted by the pair at the door. Edward had been Lady Fiona’s shadow since Chloe could recall… at least, until Chloe came to attend her. Ever since Chloe’s arrival, Edward seemed far more inclined to his own pursuits. She took the helm of the invalid chair and maneuvered Fiona out of the room, taking her out the back.

  The wheeled chair was a cumbersome contraption. Once outside, they struggled over steppingstones and patches of weed, which seemed to have sprung forth overnight. The chair caught at every pebble. As they encountered clumps of weeds, Chloe bent to yank them out from the ground, tossing them away from the stone path.

  “You shouldn’t have to do that,” Lady Fiona said apologetically. But someone had to. Glen Abbey’s only gardener had a long enough list of duties. The poor man struggled to fulfill them and to feed his family with only meager pay.

  “I really don’t mind,” Chloe assured her. And she truly didn’t. God gave her two hands to use. And besides, her mother had often labored, by choice, in their little garden at home, coaxing flowers to bloom. Chloe desperately missed the scent of freshly cut blossoms.

  More than that, she missed her mother.

  Reaching back to pat her hand, Fiona said, “You are a godsend, my dear. Whatever would I do without you?”

  “You would cow these pesky weeds into lying down for you,” Chloe said as she pushed the wheeled chair toward Lady Fiona’s favorite spot beneath the rose canopy. “I mean to say, not even Mother Nature would dare challenge you.”

  Fiona laughed softly, the sound almost musical. “Oh, but my dear, you don’t seem the least bit cowed. I must be losing my touch.”

  Chloe smiled. Hardly, she thought, remembering the constable’s florid complexion. Even from her invalid chair, Lady Fiona managed to make one feel as though she towered over them. She was kindhearted, but strong-willed. And she was reticent, in truth, but with more of an air of melancholy than one of bitterness. Chloe tried to remember the first time she’d met Lady Fiona and smiled, because she couldn’t recall a time this lady wasn’t part of her life. Like a long-reigning monarch, it seemed she had always been there. In better days, Lady Fiona had, in fact, been somewhat affectionately known as the queen of Glen Abbey.

  They reached the rose canopy and Chloe settled her chair beneath the cascading rose vines so that she was free of the sun. She cast a glance in the direction of the house to be certain Edward had not followed and said, “I wanted to tell you while we were in the drawing room, but my lord is awake.”

  “God be praised!” she said, and Chloe didn’t miss the note of relief.

  It was an old house.

  Taking care to avoid another confrontation before he was ready for it, Merrick wandered the halls, taking in the deteriorated state of the manor.

  At one time it must have been grand—nothing like the opulence of Meridian’s palace, but noble, nonetheless.

  More than he recalled at first glance, it was evident that no one made reparations for it now. And yet, though the walls were dingy, and the draperies were brittle and yellowed, every room he passed was immaculate.

  Had they no funds to pay for the upkeep of this house? That seemed odd, considering the riches his father hoarded.

  Alas, he’d encountered few servants along the way, but the ones in residence obviously gave their mistress their blood and sweat. Did they do so out of love?

  Or did she bleed them like a leech?

  The latter was easier to believe, because his flesh-and-blood mother must have been heartless to abandon her own babe.

  He stopped to examine a portrait that hung at the head of the stairwell. If he didn’t know better, he would swear he was looking at himself. But it was the present Lord Lindale, dressed in a deep blue waistcoat and a white, elaborately fashioned cravat—a bit dandyish for Merrick’s taste. The tailcoat, however, was black—better, he supposed. Aside from the bright waistcoat, it could have been Merrick down to the last fine detail.

  Obviously, he and ‘Ian’ were twins. He’d already concluded that much, but what he didn’t know yet was how it came to be that he was foisted upon his father’s wife. It would certainly explain the emotional detachment she’d kept toward him, never affording him a mother’s care. Only what would she have had to gain by her silence?

  Had his father threatened her? Bribed her?

  Then again, she’d never borne his father any issue. Perhaps raising a bastard hadn’t been a concern for her since she hadn’t had a son of her own who could inherit.

  Merrick stared at the smirking portrait, trying to read the uncanny blue eyes. They were the same odd shade as his own. Only it had never struck him until this moment just how startling they were. A lover had once told him they were his most disquieting trait, because they always seemed to know.

  How much di
d Ian know?

  His brother certainly recovered his surprise quickly enough to steal Merrick’s carriage, his clothes and life. Unfortunately, Merrick no longer even had the letter addressed to Fiona; it was in his vest pocket.

  For better or worse, his twin was now in possession of it, and Merrick had only his face as proof of their kinship—startling enough as it was.

  An incredible surge of anger pummeled through him.

  Why, in God’s name, had his father not accepted both his sons? More importantly, why had his mother agreed to leave one behind? Or had she any choice in the matter?

  Perhaps she hadn’t, and that would be the obvious source of his father’s unremitting guilt. But what, precisely, did he regret? What did he do to this woman. Alas, it seemed the more Merrick uncovered, the more questions arose.

  He wiped a finger across the framework of the portrait, found it free of dust and continued on down the hall toward Ian’s room. There would be plenty of time to face his mother. He didn’t yet know what to say to her. What did one say to the woman who’d abandoned you?

  Chloe knocked first upon Lord Lindale’s door.

  He, not Hawk, was the reason for Glen Abbey’s decline. God help her, if she hadn’t been in such dire straits after her father’s death, she would never have agreed to suffer his employ. She could scarcely bear to look him in the face.

  How could he face her after robbing her of her life? Moreover, how could he throw stones at Hawk when he was far worse than Hawk could ever be? Hawk stole to help others; Lindale stole out of greed.

  What the old earl gave in friendship, the present earl snatched away without regret. And what was most unforgivable was that he’d done so at the blackest hour in Chloe’s life—whilst she was burying her father. That afternoon, thieves overturned their cottage and stole every document her father had locked away—including the deed to their land and house, a gift from the old earl to her father for his years of loyal service. The thieves left everything else of value behind, which told Chloe that there was only one thing they were after.