A Heart Deceived (38 page)

But too many questions held her back. “How did you know where to find me?”

His jaw tensed. A corded muscle stood out on his neck. She’d seen that look on Roland too many times not to read it as anger. Even though this was Ethan, her dearest beloved, she shrank into the pillows.

“Witherskim informed me,” he ground out.

Witherskim? Would she never be finished with the man? She frowned, searching her memory for missing pieces. How could Witherskim have told him anything when Ethan hadn’t been there during the inquiry? “How did you … they took you away. They called you a murderer.”

He smirked. “They called you mad.”

“They lied!” She shifted, trying to rise. That accusation had violated her one too many times. “You’ve got to believe me. I—”

“Shhh.” He crooked a finger and ran his knuckle along her cheek. His touch soothed in ways she couldn’t begin to understand. “Of course you are not mad. Neither am I a murderer, love.” He trailed his finger down to her chin, then over her lips.

She shivered.

“And we shall never listen to them again, shall we?” he asked.

“Yes … I mean, no.” Who could think with the gentle stroke he ran all around her face?

“All is well, then.” He leaned closer.

She breathed in his scent—sandalwood, earthy, masculine—the smell of warmth and safety. Inches from her, he paused, gazing at her with a yearning that both frightened and thrilled.

“Miri.” Her name, his soul, entwined in that one husky word.

His mouth touched her brow, light yet entirely intimate. A meeting of more than flesh and blood. Her heart beat erratically, and she felt a tremor shake through him. If his lips moved lower, what kind of passion would be unleashed?

Which is exactly what he must’ve realized, for he shot to his feet, chest heaving. “I should let you rest.”

He strode to the door and disappeared before she could answer. Prudent reaction. A sensible, chivalrous, wise bit of behavior.

But one she would mourn for the rest of the night.

Air. Cold or frigid, ideally. Ethan rubbed a knot at the back of his neck as he descended the stairs and headed toward the front entrance. Here he was, running away again. Apparently some things would never change. A smile twitched his lips. But this time, oh how different the cause. Yes, a long walk in the cool of evening ought to calm the parts of him Miri had stirred.

“Excuse me, m’lord.” Off to the side, Dobbins stood near the sitting room door, light shining merrily behind him. “This cannot be put off any longer.”

Ethan frowned. “Are we expecting guests?”

“No, sir.” The butler folded his hands together, then as suddenly unclasped them. A small thing, really, but completely out of character. Something was wrong.

A crazy, horrible thought niggled at the back of Ethan’s mind. In bringing Miri here, had he brought typhus along as well? “Are you well, Dobbins?”

“Quite, m’lord.” His hands disappeared behind his back, and he shifted his weight.

Old liar. He’d never seen the fellow so unsettled. “Very well.” Ethan swept past him into the sitting room. “What is it?”

Ethan stationed himself at the mantle, eye-level with a carved wooden box. His desire for opium was pretty much nonexistent, thank God, but the urge to light up one of the cheroots in that box made him rethink where he stood.

“I’ve been trying to have an audience with you ever since you arrived. Rather unsuccessfully, I might add.” Dobbins lifted a decanter, lamplight turning the liquid into a burnt honey glow. “Brandy, sir?”

Would this entire night be one snare after another? He licked his lips, swallowing this new temptation as well. “No, thank you.”

“You might need it.” The butler lifted the stopper and poured.

Two glasses.

Alarm shot through him. “What on God’s green earth is this all about, man?”

Dobbins delivered his drink. When he handed it off, the glass shook. He said nothing of it as he looked up into Ethan’s face. “You’ve been so preoccupied with your lady, sir, that I’ve taken the liberty to deflect most household matters. You are required to journey to Bainbridge tomorrow, however. That’s one bit of business I cannot attend to. And what I have to tell you cannot keep until your return.”

The butler doubled back and collected the other glass. Then lifted it to his lips.

The breach of protocol was stunning—and grounds for dismissal. Ethan slugged back one swallow, let the drink burn down his throat, then set the glass on the mantle. He crossed to a chair, sat with elbows on knees, and leaned forward. “This is more than Bainbridge. Have at it.”

A hint of a smile lit the butler’s face. “You are not at all like your father, sir.”

“Thank you.”

The butler smiled in full, then drained his glass and returned it to the tray. Straightening his jacket, he neared the settee but did not sit.

“You might as well take a seat, Dobbins.” Ethan smirked. “As long as you’re collecting them, what’s one more liberty?”

Dobbins gave a somber shake of the head. “Thank you, but no. I shall not indulge beyond your limits. I fear what I have to say might very well see me packing this night.”

Ethan’s brow shot up. His thoughts flitted about, a swarm of mayflies that would not land. “Your gravity is unprecedented, Dobbins.”

The man sighed, looking years beyond his age. “The topic I wish to discuss will not be welcome.”

“Which is?”

“About your father, sir.”

Any leftover amorous feelings stirred by Miri fled—the mention of his father accomplishing much more than a walk in the evening air ever could. “Go on.”

“I think I may say, sir, it is no secret that bad blood ran between you and my former master.” Dobbins drew in a large breath. “And I know why.”

Ethan scrubbed his face. He wasn’t even sure he knew the reason why. “What are you talking about?”

“Your father, God rest his soul, did not … could not … dote upon you—”

“Dote!” Ethan leaned back, folding his arms. “The man could hardly stand to look upon me.”

“Yes, well, that was because …” The butler wiped a gloved hand across his forehead. “You were a constant reminder of his infidelity. A regret he took with him to his grave.”

Ethan’s jaw dropped. A million questions shattered his existence. Just like that. Poof. No more Ethan Goodwin.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, sir. He loved m’lady Trenton, loved her like a saint, for so she was. It was simply one terrible indiscretion, fueled by too much excess, as you know he was wont to do.”

“An indiscretion that resulted in … me?” Voiced aloud, it sounded even more absurd. He shook his head to clear it.

“Yes.”

That one word landed like a cannonball, sending out a ripple that touched every memory he owned. How could he begin to view the past through these spectacles? Who was he? He lifted his head and peered at Dobbins. “Why?”

Dobbins’s brow wrinkled. “Not quite the question I was expecting from you. Why what, sir?”

“Why did he keep me, raising me along with Richard? Why even admit to my birth? Why not simply dispose of the woman who bore me? Send her away? Pay her off?” He cringed at the suggestion, a cruel blow to any woman. Despicable conduct, to be sure, but more common than a halfpenny.

“Because of m’lady Trenton.”

“My—” The name
mother
died on his lips. She wasn’t. She never had been. The woman he’d assumed as his own flesh no longer belonged to him. Just one more grievance pitched on top of a lifelong pile of injustices. He raked a hand through his hair. “Then who was my mother? What happened to her? Where is she now?”

“Your real mother”—was that a quiver in Dobbins’s voice?—“died in childbirth. It was m’lady Trenton who insisted you remain here, sired as her and your father’s own.”

Ethan searched the old butler’s face. Was he making this up? Was this all some kind of trickery? For what means?

Dobbins did not so much as flinch beneath his gaze, and gaze at him he did, for a very long time, scouring every line for movement, for truth. “Why was I not told this before?”

The butler’s mouth pressed tight, his lips disappearing for an instant. “Your father made me and m’lady swear to secrecy. It was his one condition for keeping you on. He would not have m’lady’s name besmirched by flaunting his tryst in public. Now that he’s gone, now that they’re both gone, I felt it your right to know, sir. And rest assured, the secret dies with me.”

The information pummeled him, beating him into a shape he could not recognize. He rose on shaky legs. One more question, and he’d burst out of here. Walk and walk. Lose himself in the night air—whoever he was. “How do you know all this? Why would my father reveal such personal information to you?”

Dobbins’s jaw worked for some time, and Ethan stared at it in dreaded anticipation.

“The woman, your mother, was a scullery maid in this household.” Dobbins’s voice softened. “My sister.”

41

Miri pressed her forehead against the bedchamber’s windowpane. Yesterday had been the first she’d truly felt her old self, and now that she regained strength, boredom reduced her to watching raindrops squiggle down the glass. Fat, steady droplets wept from a grey afternoon sky. If she listened really hard, she could hear Roland’s stern voice in the roll of thunder.

“Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop, woman!”

Her sigh fogged the glass. Would she ever hear his voice again?

Did she really want to?

Conflicted, she turned away, pressing her fingers to the cool spot on her brow—the same spot Ethan’s lips had warmed well over a week ago, now. Where was he? Why had he not been to see her? She walked a fine line between hurt and anger. Next time she saw him, she’d either slap him in the face or run into his arms.

She paced the length of the rug, as useless a pursuit as when she’d questioned the young maid about Ethan. The girl, Anna, didn’t know him. Nor much of anything else, for that matter. She was newly hired and, while she liked to talk, was not well versed in the ways of Westford Manor.

A light knock rapped on the door an instant before the girl appeared. How come when she thought of Ethan, he didn’t pop in as magically?

“Oh, miss!” Anna rushed in, hands wringing. Her apron strings flew behind her like streamers as she dashed across the room. “There you are.”

Miri furrowed her brow. “Where did you think I’d be?”

“There’s no time. Come.” She pulled out a cushioned stool next to the vanity, almost tipping it over. “Let me see what I can do about your hair.”

“Don’t bother.” Miri ran a hand over her shorn head. “I hardly have any. Besides, why would you want to? What’s going on?”

“M’lord has returned, miss. And straight off, he’s asked after you!” Her freckles fairly danced across the bridge of her nose. “He should like to see you in the sitting room directly.”

Palms suddenly moist, Miri wiped them on the borrowed daydress she wore. Of course she’d known the time would come when she’d face the lord of the manor, and that the opportunity would answer many of her questions. But apprehension of the unknown rankled her all the same.

“And I don’t mind telling you, miss, he’s quite the gent. Spoke right to me, he did. To me! Imagine. I never heard of such a thing.” A deep blush chased away Anna’s dancing freckles.

Miri pursed her lips. What manner of man was this fellow? Rescuing half-dead nobodies from insane asylums and dialoguing with servant girls was rather unconventional—and downright scandalous.

Anna stepped closer, reaching to straighten Miri’s collar and puff up her sleeves. “He’s a real looker, too. Tall and dark-haired. He’s got the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

“You”—Miri smiled at the girl—“are entirely smitten with the man.”

One hand of Anna’s hands flew to her chest, the other to her mouth. She retreated a few steps, eyes wide.

Miri laughed. “I promise I won’t tell a soul, don’t worry.”

Anna lowered her hands to her stomach. “Thank you, miss. If Mrs. Pandy knew, she’d let me go, she would.”

“If the master of this house is half as wonderful as you claim, I daresay he’d not allow her to dismiss you for mere admiration.”

As the logic of Miri’s words sank in, a grin grew on the girl’s face. “That’s right!” She skipped to the door and held it open. “Come along, then, miss. I fancy you’ll take to him just as I have.”

“Very well.” She spoke more for Anna’s sake than from belief. Crossing the chamber, she paused in front of the looking glass. A goose-necked waif stared back at her. The pale blue daydress added pallor to her skin and hung on her frame as if it had been clothes-pegged to her shoulders. Her hair, too curly to lay flat and too short to spiral downward, frizzed out like an ill-trimmed boxwood. She frowned, the expression even less attractive. Typhus had robbed her of the small cask of beauty she owned.

“Come, miss,” Anna called from the threshold. “You don’t want to keep m’lord waiting, do you?”

“Yes, actually.” She would not mind at all if he waited until her hair grew out and she put on some weight. But Anna’s gasp ended that thought. She stepped from the glass. “I’m only jesting. Lead on.”

Rich paneling and crystal wall sconces adorned the corridor they traveled. The stairway sported a curved balustrade that felt like glass to the touch, and her slippers sank into thick carpeting on each step. The lord of Westford Manor apparently appreciated exquisite décor. What could he possibly want with her?