Regency 02 - Betrayal (17 page)

Bri disengaged her hand and rose to her feet.
“Shall I ring for tea?” She crossed to the bell pull without
waiting for an answer and jerked it rather violently.

Verena said nothing about having declined the
footman’s offer of tea and allowed Bri to order a tray. She hoped
the normality of taking tea together would allow them to regain
some of their lost time together. Perhaps Bri will then trust her
enough to ask for help.

They sat in silence until the tray arrived.
It wasn’t necessarily an uncomfortable silence but there was some
undeniable tension.

Bri poured and handed her friend a cup
without first asking if she would even like one. This action was
unusual considering the last time they had spoken, Bri had been
Verena’s abigail. Lady Connor’s worry deepened.

The marchioness strove for a topic that would
relax her friend. Bri saved her the trouble.

“How is Lord Connor? Oh, but he is Beverley
now, of course. How is he?” Bri’s smile was bright and her eyes
were blank of anything but curiosity.

“He is well. He refuses to use the title. You
heard about his brother?” Verena asked a trifle reluctantly. It was
not a subject she cared to talk much about.

“Only recently I was told that he died
leaving Lord Connor Denbigh’s heir. Why should he refuse to be
known as Lord Beverley?”

Verena looked down at her hands, which
trembled slightly. She carefully set her cup and saucer down before
replying to Bri’s remark. When she did, she was glad to note the
emotionless quality of her voice.

“Beverley died suspiciously in France. I was
living with Amelia, Connor’s aunt, when we heard of it.” Then she
waited for the inevitable question.

Bri’s face took on a puzzled frown. “Living
with Connor’s aunt? Where was Connor?” She paused briefly but
hurried on. “Oh, don’t answer that, please. It was very impertinent
of me to ask. Forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Bri. You are my
friend.”

She left it at that. She picked up her teacup
and sipped cautiously, willing her hands to be still. It amazed her
how much certain memories still affected her.

Verena closed her eyes. She felt her cup
being lifted from her suddenly nerveless fingers and her hand was
tightly encased in Bri’s. “Tell me,” Bri requested gently.

“I came here to offer you comfort and
friendship, not to beg it of you,” Verena replied in a quavering
voice.

Bri grinned. “Yes, you did, my dear. But you
will see that whereas you took no for an answer, I will not. I am
stubborn, so you may as well speak.” Her voice softened. “And I can
tell you need to.”

“Oh, it’s nothing, really,” she said with a
careless wave of her free hand. “I just have trouble talking about
it.”

“Why?”

Verena looked away again. Her voice was so
low, Bri had to lean forward to hear her. “You know I was raped,
Bri. I still have difficulty speaking of that time in my life.”

Bri commiserated with her but said
nothing.

Verena visibly brightened. “But that is the
past and I have no desire to speak of it anymore. Adam Prestwich
was the one that discovered the truth, by the way.”

When she said the name, Verena watched for
Bri’s reaction. The countess stiffened for a moment before dropping
a careful social mask in place over her features. Verena had been
hoping for a way to casually mention Adam and judge for herself the
way things stood between her two friends. Bri’s reaction was not
encouraging.

“Indeed?” Bri responded politely, releasing
her hand and reaching for the teapot.

“Yes,” Verena responded with false
lightness.

Bri sat very silently. Verena wondered what
was going through her head. The countess moved to set her teacup on
the table in front of her. Her movements were slow as if she were
moving in a dream.

The two women sat in silence for a moment. It
was a tense, rather awkward silence fraught with uneasy thoughts on
each side.

Verena was the first to speak. “Why, until
today, have I been denied admittance?” she asked softly.

Bri threw her an apologetic look. She was
unsure what to tell her without either hurting her feelings or
letting on that she, Bri, was in trouble just as the marchioness
suspected.

She chose her words carefully. “I’m afraid it
was all a dreadful misunderstanding. My uncle, Corning, thought it
would be painful for me to be reminded of that time when I was
away.”

Verena gave her an unreadable look. Her brow
was furrowed slightly and she appeared to be thinking very
carefully about the countess’s words.

The silence returned. Neither lady even made
a pretense of ease by reaching for a biscuit or refilling her
teacup. Lady Rothsmere finally broke it.

“Why did you not approach me at any of the
parties we have attended?” She sounded hurt. She could hear it in
her own voice. She tried to smile but failed. She
was
hurt.
Very much.

Verena reached out and grasped her hand. “I
wanted to, believe me. But Connor and I thought perhaps you would
not want to be reminded either. I know what a difficult time you’ve
had since you left us. And then, of course, you were always
surrounded by so many gallants, I didn’t like to break up your
enjoyment.” She paused and bit her lip.

“What?” Bri asked, seeing her friend wanted
to say something but was unsure if she should.

“Why Steyne, Bri?” she blurted out finally.
“I mean, he was a scoundrel when I knew him and I doubt he’s
changed so very much.”

“He is my betrothed,” Bri responded tightly.
“I am marrying him. That is an end to the matter.” She rose,
signaling the end of the visit. “I really must return to my other
guests, my lady. Please excuse me.”

Bri swept from the room with her head high.
But Verena had caught the blaze of raw anguish in the depths of her
friend’s emerald eyes just before she had turned away.

Lady Connor Northwicke departed deep in
thought.

Oh, it was all too much, Bri thought again as
she tried to stop the perpetual flow of tears. She had noticed the
hurt look on Verena’s face when she had left yesterday and she
hated having to hurt her. But she couldn’t let anyone know of the
perfectly miserable hell her life had become.

Brewster had proven to be a ruthless
protector since the night of Bri’s rape and the countess was
eternally grateful to the woman. But there was only so much the
woman could do and she couldn’t be everywhere at once.

Bri shuddered as she remembered Steyne’s
visit in the middle of the night. He had been furious when Brewster
had adamantly refused to leave her mistress’s side—the woman had
taken to sleeping in Bri’s room at night. Steyne had left swearing
retribution but even he knew the power of servants’ gossip, so he
had left with little more harm done than the threat.

Except the new bruise that Bri sported on her
upper arm and along the outside of her right thigh. These had been
acquired when the viscount had grabbed her arm and thrown her
against the bed. Her leg had struck the bedpost and she ended up on
the floor gasping and struggling not to cry. Her refusal to show
her fear seemed to enrage him all the more and she had found
herself being shaken roughly before her maid stepped in to put an
end to the abuse.

That was when the viscount had taken himself
off. Then Bri had once again found herself wrapped in the
comforting arms of her maid and sobbing out her hurt and anger at
the injustices of life.

Sunlight came through the part in the
curtains and landed full on Bri’s sleeping face. She came awake
slowly, reluctantly. Her eyes opened, bloodshot from the tears shed
in the night, with dark circles under them. A walk, she thought
groggily, pushing herself up and out of the huge bed. She needed a
walk in the fresh air, in the park, before anyone else was
there.

Brewster came in and stopped short at the
sight of her. Bri was wearing a nightgown of demure length but with
no sleeves and made of near transparent white muslin. It was
unusual for a young unmarried lady to wear such scandalous
nightclothes, but Bri preferred it. Until now, that is. The maid’s
eyes widened in dismay and Bri looked a question at her before
following her gaze.

“No,” the young woman said determinedly,
squeezing her eyes shut and clenching her fists against the
onslaught of fresh tears. “I will not cry. He does not have that
power over me.”

And so she smiled brightly, despite the
purple and blue bruise marring the delicate flesh of her upper arm
and the soreness of her right leg. She had little doubt she would
find it just as colorful. Brewster said nothing as she helped her
mistress into a long-sleeved walking dress of dark blue. But she
couldn’t keep the pity from her eyes.

The sun was shining just as brightly as it
had been when she awoke. Bri paused and lifted her face to the
warmth of the sun just after they entered Hyde Park. Brewster
waited patiently with a resigned look on her plain features until
they resumed walking.

The women walked sedately forward, the maid a
few paces behind her mistress as was proper. Bri longed for someone
in whom she could confide. Only Brewster knew the extent of her
troubles.

But there was little a servant could do. They
could have Brewster killed—and, no, Bri did not feel she was making
a Cheltenham tragedy of the situation or seeing villains were there
were none—or make her conveniently disappear. They were in London,
after all, where the East End teemed with seedy characters trying
to make a living in any way, however disreputable, that they could.
Disposing of a disobedient maid would be child’s play to them.

Upon reaching a bench, Bri sat with an
unladylike plop. She had never really cared very much for all the
proprieties anyway. Brewster stood behind her.

“Sit down, Mary,” the countess commanded
softly. “I have need of your calm good sense.”

The maid hesitated. “It wouldn’t be proper,
my lady.”

“Hang the proprieties!” she exclaimed
irritably. Then she untied her pretty straw bonnet, removed it, and
threw to the ground beside her.

Brewster pursed her lips in disapproval and
thanked the fates that the park was even more empty than usual this
morning.

Bri scowled up at her. “Sit, Brewster, or
find new employ,” she growled lowly.

“Well, put that way,” the maid said with a
faint smile. She sat.

Silence prevailed for several moments. Bri
sat and listened, entranced, to the peaceful, calming sounds of
birds trilling, the occasional bark of a dog, and somewhere beyond
the park gates were the sounds of men and women hawking their wares
to the early risers of London.

She sighed. “Why cannot life be simple?” she
asked wistfully.

“Probably because simple is boring, I dare
say,” replied an amused voice behind her.

Bri swung around, eyes wide with fright, and
encountered the serious blue-eyed gaze of Lord Connor Northwicke.
His lips smiled but she could tell he wasn’t truly amused at all.
His eyes were blank.

“Lord Connor, how do you do?” she inquired
politely. She rose to her feet and winced slightly as her injured
leg protested the sudden movement. Brewster rose as well and
curtsied before stepping a respectful distance away from the
pair.

Connor caught the look of pain that streaked
Lady Rothsmere’s face. He said nothing, knowing instinctively that
she would lie about its cause. Instead, he smiled and bowed before
gesturing that she be seated again.

Brewster read a command in the marquess’s
eyes and walked a short distance away. Bri watched her go with a
little look of dismay twisting her lips. She really did not want to
be left alone with Verena’s husband.

Connor sat down beside her, picked up her
bonnet, and laid it carefully on the bench on his other side. He
leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest, and stretched his
legs straight out in front of him with his ankles crossed. He then
proceeded to stare at his boots. He didn’t look at her or
speak.

“What brings you to the park at this early
hour, my lord?” she asked with a bright, albeit nervous, smile. She
realized she betrayed her nervousness in the way she fiddled with
the ribbon of her pelisse and forced her hands to be still.

“Why does anyone walk early in the morning?”
he replied with a shrug of one immaculately clad shoulder. “To
commune with nature, to find a modicum of peace in an otherwise
hellish existence, if you’ll pardon the expression.” He didn’t look
up. His boots seemed to be the most interesting things he had seen
in quite some time.

Bri wasn’t fooled by his apparently relaxed
pose. She could feel the tension that seemed to radiate from him.
He was waiting, biding his time. When he felt sure she had relaxed
her guard, he would pounce. And she would be powerless to stop
herself from telling him everything.

Fixing him with a steely glare, she intoned
softly, “It really is no use, you know.”

He turned a look of polite inquiry on her,
blue eyes wide and innocent.

“Everything is fine,” she lied. “I don’t know
what Doll told you, my lord, but—”

“Con,” he said with a cheeky grin that she
found thoroughly exasperating.

“Con, then,” she conceded. “Whatever she told
you, she’s wrong.”

His grin disappeared. He looked very…pensive,
Bri decided.

“It wasn’t Verena’s very relevant worry that
brought me here, Bri. It was actually what Miss Emerson told
me.”

“Miss Emerson?” she asked, startled.

“Yes, my dear Lady Rothsmere, Miss Raven
Emerson. It seems she has taken quite a liking to you and has taken
it upon herself to keep an eye on you. She’s worried. She shared
her worries with me. I am asking you if I should be worried about
you.”