A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle (32 page)

The housekeeper served first Aurora,
then Sir Jonas, and actually poured a cup for herself as well. “If
I may be so bold, my lady,” she said and settled onto the sofa
beside Aurora, “his lordship is a good man, underneath all the
bluster. He would never intend to hurt you.” Mrs. Marshall placed a
hand on Aurora’s and looked into her eyes with a steadfast gaze.
“Never.”

Oh, dear good Lord. Did the servants
know everything here? It hadn’t seemed like bluster after all, like
he would never mean to hurt her, when he had launched her journal
at her. “Thank you, Mrs. Marshall. That will be all.”

The housekeeper squeezed her hand and
smiled, then took her teacup and left.

“
She’s right,” Sir Jonas
said. “I know you don’t want to hear it right now, and you probably
don’t believe it, but she’s right.”

Aurora absolutely did not
want to hear it. She did, however, want to know more about
this
news
. “Since
the news you brought him apparently affects me and not only my
husband, may I ask you to tell me as well?”

Sir Jonas dragged a hand across his
face. “It seems I must, now. Where to begin?” He stood and walked
to the window, as though searching for answers.

Answers he should be giving her. “I
find that the beginning is typically a good place to start,” she
said, trying and failing to keep the facetious tone from her
voice.

“
Indeed, you are right.
Very well. I assume you know of the gossip article about you and
your…um, your story, shall we say, that was printed in the society
pages?”

When Aurora nodded, he
proceeded to tell her of a ghastly new gossip periodical that was
printing stories—claiming them to be
her
stories.

“
Oh, gracious heavens,”
Aurora breathed. “I swear to you, Sir Jonas, I did not write them.
Well, I did write the first one I would imagine,” she said with a
violent blush, “but I haven’t written anything at all since we left
London, save letters and random thoughts and tidbits about my days.
Blast, and I started to write another story today, but it was
hardly illicit.” She didn’t want to reveal quite
what
she’d been writing.
Not to him. Not really to anyone.

He looked across at her with a pitying
expression. Blast him for that. She hated to be pitied. Hated it
with the fire of a thousand suns.

“
I believe you, ma’am.
Truthfully, I do.”

“
But my husband does not.”
Why should he, after all, when he knew so much of the stories
she
had
written?

“
No, and he would not allow
me to tell him why I think someone else responsible.”

“
And why would that be?”
Aurora inquired.

Sir Jonas shifted his feet. “I do
apologize for having this discussion with you, as it is highly
irregular. But I have read them all. When I learned what was being
said of you, I wanted to know if it was true.” At least he had the
courtesy to look embarrassed. “The other stories tell of depraved
acts. They’re written in a much more forceful tone, and about
things I cannot believe Quin would ever do to you—things he’d never
ask you to do.”

Aurora closed her eyes. They’d done
countless things she could have never imagined. If these stories
even remotely resembled the actual events that had gone on behind
their closed doors, Quin would never believe she wasn’t responsible
for it all. “Such as?” she asked, not really wanting to hear the
answer.

“
I’m truly sorry, ma’am,”
Sir Jonas said, “but married or not, these are things I could never
discuss with a lady.”

“
How can I convince Quin I
didn’t write them if I don’t know what they are?”

“
I’ll talk to him after
he’s calmed down,” Sir Jonas said. “I’ll make him listen to reason.
I promise you, he will believe me.”

She could only hope he was right.
After all, Quin would not believe Aurora about anything.

Sir Jonas headed for the door, but
then stopped and faced her again. “Give him tonight. He’ll be more
reasonable in the morning.”

“
Pardon? Give him tonight
for what?”

“
Before you go looking for
him. He’s gone.” Sir Jonas gave her that same pitying look again.
“If you will agree to wait until tomorrow, I’ll tell you where he
went. And if you refuse to wait, I’ll be forced to come with you
for your safety.”

~ * ~

Quin slammed closed the door of the
hermitage by the river, ignoring how the glass of the window panes
shuddered from his violence.

He couldn’t stay there, at the abbey.
He couldn’t be in the same room as her.

Not anymore. Not after what
she’d done. Not after what
he’d
done.

He ripped back the doors to cabinets
and closets, looking for the brandy he’d asked Forster to stock.
Not that he had intended to use it quite so soon.

Some things couldn’t be helped though.
Finally, he found the proper compartment and pulled out a decanter.
No point in bothering with a glass. He intended to drink the whole
damned thing. He pulled out the cork and took a long, full
swill.

If anyone held any doubts that he was
his father incarnate, Quin had now well and truly disabused them
all of their skepticism.

He had nearly struck his wife with her
own bloody journal. And he couldn’t even deny he’d done it, since
Jonas was there as a deuced witness. Sure, there were no laws
against it.

What did that matter? There ought to
be. There should have been all along.

But no one bothered to protect women
from men like him. Or children, for that matter. Quin took a bigger
drink, relishing the burn as it slid down his throat. One thing was
certain. He couldn’t allow Aurora to have his child. His child
wouldn’t suffer like he had. It was bad enough he’d roped her into
marriage, forced her hand. He couldn’t undo it now, not even to
protect her from the monster he was. It was too late.

Damn Rotheby and his ideas!

If it wasn’t for the earl’s illogical
need for Quin to reproduce, none of this would be happening. Quin
would be happily off on the coast of Spain or in Athens, drinking
and gambling—and Aurora would be some other sod’s
problem.

Bloody hell. The image of Aurora with
any other man did not sit well with him. He took another
swig.

If he and Aurora didn’t have a child,
Rotheby would take the abbey. All they’d have left would be
Aurora’s dowry. It was a reasonable amount, but not enough for them
to keep separate quarters—which would be the only safe
option.

He’d have to either take a bloody
profession or return to his ways of cheating at the gaming hells.
Neither of which sounded like a good choice at the
moment.

Quin needed to think. There had to be
a solution. He just hadn’t found it yet.

A horse’s hooves sounded in the
distance, coming up along the pea-gravel outside the hermitage. It
had to be Jonas. None of the staff would dare to interrupt him. Not
here. Not now. And Aurora wouldn’t have the first clue where to
find him.

Quin staggered out through the door
and stared at the approaching sounds in the empty darkness. “What
do you want, you horse’s arse?”

“
To start,” Jonas drawled,
“you could tell me how many more bottles you have in there so I
know how many I’ll have to dispose of before I leave.”

Fat chance in hell that would happen.
“Go away.”

Jonas and his horse finally appeared
in the moonlight, calm, in no hurry. He alit from his horse and
tied the reins to a post beside the building. “Care to invite me
inside?” he asked, letting himself into the hermitage before Quin
had the opportunity to refuse.

“
I told you to get out,”
Quin half-shouted. God, it rang in his ears something awful.
Another swallow would help. He downed some more as he followed
Jonas back inside. The bastard had already settled himself into a
chair by the window by the time Quin came through the
door.

“
Have a seat,” Jonas said,
acting as if he owned the place and indicating the chair next to
him. “We need to talk.” When Quin didn’t comply, Jonas roughly
pulled on Quin’s arm until he sank into the chair.

Christ, that left his arse hurting.
“Have a care, will you?” Quin said.

“
I wouldn’t be here if I
didn’t care.” Jonas pried the bottle free from Quin’s grasp and
tossed into the hearth. It shattered, sending tiny splinters of
glass flying through the small room. “Now cork it and
listen.”

“
I’ll plant you a facer,
for that.”

“
Later. You can do anything
you want later. But right now, you listen. Your wife didn’t write
the damned stories they’re printing in the new rag.”

“
Bloody balderdash, she
didn’t,” Quin mumbled. All of a sudden, Jonas thought he knew
everything.

Jonas pulled a stack of papers from
inside his coat and thrust them before Quin’s nose. “You don’t have
to take my word for it. Read them for yourself. Draw your own
conclusions.” Jonas moved a lighted candlestick closer before he
stood and paced.

“
I don’t want to read the
bloody”

“
Read them,” Jonas
interrupted. “I don’t want to hear another word from you until
you’re finished with the entire lot of them.”

Who had died and made Jonas king?
Prinny would never stand for it.

Still, he ought to read them. He
needed to know how bad it was—how soon he should expect Rotheby to
toss them out. His eyes scanned the top page, devouring the words
as he had so often devoured the pages of Aurora’s journal. It was a
perfect sample of her writings, exactly like all the ones he’d read
before. He might even want to try this particular one with her.
“You’ve lost your blasted mind, Jonas. This is clearly Aurora’s
writing. Strawberries and clotted cream in bed”

“
Close your mouth and read
the next one,” Jonas snapped. He used the same tone that had been
so common amongst Quin’s tutors over the years—every time he was
caught neglecting to work assiduously at his studies. Which, of
course, was a rather frequent occurrence. Even more frequent after
his father’s death, when Quin had started to raid the man’s ever
increasing supply of brandy, kept so well hidden from his mother.
He half expected a rap on his knuckles or a rolled piece of
parchment to swat against his head.

With a scowl, Quin turned to the next
sheet of foolscap. He read, expecting more of the same. But within
moments, the words on the page scorched his eyes. Aurora’s
fantasies had always been so innocent, so tentative. A blindfold
here, strawberries in bed there. Perhaps making love in the middle
of the day instead of the dark of night.

Quin flipped through the stack as fast
as he could while still allowing his mind to register what they
contained. Tying her and using a horsewhip on her until she bled.
Mass orgies. Putting her on naked display before a room full of
lusty men. And somehow, those were the tamer stories of the
lot.

Aurora could never have written such
things. She could never have imagined them either, for that
matter.

What a fool he had been. He was so
bloody dicked in the nob, he should be carted off post haste to
Bedlam. Or maybe Newgate would be a better option, given his
present murderous state.

He felt ill. So ill in fact that he
rushed from the tiny building. Quin barely made it to the side of
the river before casting up his accounts.

“
Do you believe me now?”
Jonas asked quietly from behind him.

There could be no more question of
belief. “Christ, who’s behind this?” Quin asked so softly he almost
didn’t recognize his own voice. He had to know. And he’d find the
bastard and rip his head free from his shoulders, amongst other
things.

“
Does Aurora have any
enemies? Anyone who’d want to hurt her?”

Who could possibly want to
hurt her? Save Quin, of course, each time he lost his mind and
blamed her for something ridiculous, something for which
he
was far more likely to
hold the blame. “None that I know of. I can’t imagine she has
any.”

Jonas moved beside him and sat at the
base of the great oak leaning out over the river, tilting back to
rest against it. “I assumed as much. So then the question turns to
you. Let’s make a list. Who would want to hurt you?”

Quin laughed. “Where should I begin?”
Cuckolded husbands, cheated gamblers, scorned mistresses, Phoebe
and her family…

Wait.
Phoebe’s family
. Now there was a real
possibility. He’d run off to the Continent after that foolhardy
engagement, without giving her father or brothers a chance to
defend her honor. Not that she had any more honor to begin with
than he did, but that was beside the point.

Could it be Laughton, hoping for
retribution? No, this felt too underhanded for Phoebe’s father. The
marquess had never been one to mince words. The same could be said
for Darlingshire. Laughton’s heir would be far more likely to call
Quin out, challenge him to a duel, than to launch an attack against
his wife and cast aspersions upon her character.