The Book Of Scandal (15 page)

“I suppose he thought not to bother you with it, mu’um, what with all you’ve endured,” Milburn offered matter-of-factly.

“Are you still sad?” Frances asked.

“For the love of Christ, lad!” Milburn exclaimed.

Harriet’s eyes grew wide, but Evelyn merely smiled and tucked the tiny vial of lavender Mr. Milburn had given her into her pocket. When Robbie had died, it had felt as if the whole world was watching and waiting for her to be crushed by the weight of her grief, and she’d come dangerously close to that fate. She gave Frances a tight smile as she ushered Harriet to the door. “I will always be sad, Frances, but I am not as sad as I was.” She opened the door. “Thank you again, Mr. Milburn. Frances.”

“Good day, mu’um,” Milburn said.

Walking back to the house, Evelyn was oblivious to the cold, in spite of the temperature having dropped dramatically since they’d gone into the cottage. Harriet was skipping alongside her, chattering about Frances, and how he didn’t really know as much about plants as his lordship, and asking questions about Frances that Evelyn could not answer. She was too wrapped up in her own thoughts.

The interest in botany and the work he’d done was a side to Nathan she’d never seen. What else did she not know about him?

A curl of uncertainty crept into her thoughts, winding around other, persistent thoughts. Some of the things he’d said last night would not leave her. It seemed impossible that he was the same angry man who had, several years earlier, told her to go to London and leave him be.

She was so lost in thought that she hadn’t realized she’d followed Harriet onto the main path leading to the house, the one that crossed in front of the church and alongside the church graveyard where decades of Greys had been buried. They stumbled upon it before she realized it, and her eyes were instantly drawn to the stone cherub in the corner that marked the place where her son was buried.

Her belly tightened painfully. She came to a halt, rooted to the path, her gaze glued to the cherub. Her instinct was to flee, but there was another, stronger instinct—the instinct of a mother—that prompted her forward.

“Lady Lindsey?” Harriet asked uncertainly.

Don’t be afraid. Don’t feel, don’t feel. The cherub held his tiny hands under his chin as he looked up beseechingly at the sky. Her father-in-law had had the sculpture made. Evelyn hated it. It seemed to imply that Robbie had been whisked away by little angels, and in her heart, he’d been snatched by the devil.

“Is something wrong?” Harriet asked.

Evelyn couldn’t answer straightaway. She was remembering the day they buried him, the memory as fresh as if she were reliving that awful morning. It was cold and gray, and sleet fell, stinging their faces as they gathered in the churchyard. She supposed they had all huddled together for warmth, but she’d been heedless of rain or cold. She’d been unaware that her father stood steadfastly behind her, matching her movements with the umbrella he held over her head—Kathleen told her that later. Nor did she feel Nathan’s grip on her elbow. It wasn’t until she’d felt her knees begin to buckle that she’d realized he held her so firmly.

The only thing she could remember feeling—other than the bottomless pit of despair—was the small wooden pony she clutched in her hand, its head stained dark with a baby’s saliva and scarred by the imprints of his few tiny teeth.

She remembered staring into the bleak, black hole of his grave, trying hard not to imagine her son there. She remembered thinking, in the inebriation of her grief, that Robbie would be frightened in that hole. That he would want his mother, and she wouldn’t be there.

She’d lost her head then. She’d said aloud, “He should have his pony,” and the people around her had started to move, trying to shield her from the hole that would swallow her son.

“Evie,” Nathan had said in her ear, and had slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her into his side, holding her securely.

“He should have his pony,” she’d pleaded with him.

“Oh my darling, don’t do this,” her mother had whispered beside her, caressing her arm, as if she thought Evelyn might drop the wooden pony if she caressed it hard enough.

But Evelyn could not be appeased. In moments, the earth would swallow her son. She’d cried out—what she said, she could no longer remember, but she was suddenly frantic that her son have his pony before they put him in that hole. She’d wailed at the pastor, begging him to open the casket, holding out the wooden pony.

A cold shudder of memory ran through her, and she glanced at the tree at the side of his grave. She’d stood under that tree, and Nathan had grabbed her up, caught her face in his hands, and made her look at him.

“He needs his pony,” she’d begged him. “Please, Nathan.”

Nathan’s eyes were etched with pain and grief, but he’d looked her squarely in the eye and said soothingly, “He shall have his pony, Evie. He shall have his pony.” And then he’d wrapped his arms around her, pressed her face into the lapel of his coat, and Evelyn had dissolved into a torrent of tears from a bottomless well. She’d had no strength to hold herself up and had let go, sinking into Nathan’s warmth, allowing him to shore her up.

To this day, she did not know if Robbie had his pony.

“Lady Lindsey?” Harriet said again. “Are you all right?”

Evelyn remembered the girl and smiled. “I am very well, Harriet. I just…” She looked at the cherub again and glumly noted the bit of mold growing in the grooves of his wings. “M-my son is buried just there,” she said, amazed she was able to say it aloud.

“Is that why Frances asked if you were sad?”

“Yes,” Evelyn said, and smiled down at Harriet. “It was a long time ago. I’m freezing, darling! Let’s run and see if Benton will make us tea,” she said, and took Harriet’s hand in hers.

At the edge of the forest behind the church, the man chewed on the end of a sodden cheroot, watching the Countess of Lindsey and the girl. He wondered if the earl was close at hand, or if he had gone off as he was wont to do. If only he could lure the earl away from Eastchurch, he might find a way to complete his task.

He tossed the cheroot to the ground and turned, walking away from the church and deeper into the forest, where he’d tethered his horse.

A fter a night of heavy drinking and gambling, Nathan left Lambourne and Donnelly sleeping off their drink and rode into the village to meet with his solicitor.

Except that riding was not a very apt description. It was more as if he’d hurled himself at the village, forcing Cedric to run at breakneck speed. He could feel the horse straining beneath him, his enormous hooves chewing up the earth in great chunks of turf. But even with Cedric’s champion bloodlines, he could not run fast or hard enough to suit Nathan that morning. Nothing was fast or hard enough to remove the dull ache from his head brought on by too much whiskey…and Evelyn’s request for a divorce.

Divorce! What a ridiculous, preposterous, imbecilic thing to ask of him! Was she so oblivious to the mood of the nation? Was she so callous that she could disregard the sanctity of their vows? Had she no care for the scandal that would create for both of them?

Did she truly despise him so completely?

When he’d left that bleak room in the basement—his body still suffering from the madly passionate kiss they’d shared—he’d drunk his fill of whiskey, and his anger had ebbed into familiar feelings: Remorse. Guilt. Emptiness.

It was those old companions that had him by the throat when he left his solicitor’s modest offices and turned right on High Street toward the stables.

He had allowed the orangery to fall into disrepair, and if he were truthful with himself, he would admit that he’d done it out of anger. He’d been so angry when she’d gone to London, so furious that he could not reach her or bridge that gap that had widened between them after Robert’s death.

He’d let the small rose garden waste away, too, in spite of the protests of his head gardener. He’d left her rooms to rot as well. Benton, however, had blatantly disregarded his wishes and kept them up. Bloody butler. One would think he was the lord of the estate.

After stabling his horse, Nathan stalked up the street, nodding curtly to those who passed him, and entered Williams and Son, Purveyor of Fine Goods, by throwing open the door a little harder than was necessary.

Mr. Williams the elder or Mr. Williams the junior—Nathan hardly cared—jumped a good foot off the ground at his rather noisy entrance. “My lord!” he exclaimed, and quickly stood, dropping the quizzing glass he was using to examine some jewelry. “Welcome, welcome!” he said, coming around from behind his counter. “Please, sir, how may I help you?”

“Can you arrange for…” He could scarcely bring himself to say it without feeling like an utter fool.

“Yes?” Mr. Williams asked eagerly.

“Orange trees,” he said brusquely.

“Orange trees?”

“Miniature orange trees. From France, I believe. A dozen of them. No—two dozen.”

Mr. Williams opened his mouth…but being an ambitious merchant, he quickly shut it. He reached for a pencil and paper and began to write. “It is not the season for trees, my lord, but I might be able to find the hothouse variety.”

“Make it the season for trees,” Nathan said irritably. “They are for an orangery.”

“Ah. Two dozen, as you wish. What else may I assist you with, my lord?”

“Ah…” Nathan slapped his gloves against his thigh. “A divan and a pair of chairs that one might sit in to read. With…with a flowery fabric.” Or was it birds? He tried to remember, but could think of nothing more specific than something frilly. “Or birds,” he said uncertainly. “Flowers or birds, I hardly care! Just have them upholstered in something that would suit a woman’s…very particular tastes.”

Mr. Williams nodded and made a few notes. As he did, Nathan pictured Evelyn’s cheeks, stained pink with desire last night.

She’d looked absolutely delectable, damn her! Dressed in hardly anything at all, her hair down around her shoulders—he clenched his hand, and winced inwardly at the shot of pain that gave him. He stole a glimpse of his bruised knuckles, scraped and varying shades of purple.

He wanted her. By God, he wanted her with a strength that surprised and confounded him. She was infuriating, but that made him want her even more. It was ironic—there had been a time he could not bring himself to look at her, much less touch her. He wanted to touch her now. He wanted to touch every inch of her flesh—

“My lord?”

Nathan started.

“Is there naught else?”

“No. No, just what you have there,” he said, waving his gloves at the paper.

“Yes, my lord,” Mr. Williams said, and quickly scratched something out on the paper. When he’d finished, he looked up with a beaming smile that told Nathan he would pay dearly for this.

His instructions complete, Nathan wished the man a good day, and walked outside—and collided with Wilkes.

“Lindsey!” Wilkes said cheerfully.

Nathan was hardly in the mood to chat and scarcely glanced at Wilkes as he started in the direction of the stables. “Back from London so soon? I thought you’d be a fortnight.”

“My business was unavoidably interrupted and the lady was not inclined to a fortnight,” Wilkes said with a laugh.

“Lost your charm, have you?” Nathan goaded him as Wilkes fell in beside him.

“Once I lost the desire to pay for expensive rooms and bills from a dressmaker, she was less than enthralled with my considerable charms,” he said, and laughed again. “I take it the trunks arrived?”

Nathan’s jaw tightened; he did owe Wilkes a debt of gratitude for helping him abduct his wife—he’d seen that her things were collected and sent to Eastchurch. “They did. Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Wilkes said cheerfully. “I should mention, however, that in the course of paying the call to Buckingham, I discovered you acted without a moment to spare.”

Nathan looked up. “Oh?”

Wilkes glanced around, then said low, “Rumor among certain ladies in waiting is that Dunhill has booked passage for two to France.”

Nathan blinked, the words slowly sinking into his brain.

“He clearly meant to escape with her,” Wilkes continued blithely as they reached the stable. “It seems to have been a rather open and bold friendship.”

Nathan gestured for his mount.

“I tell you this only as a friend, naturally,” Wilkes added.

“Naturally.” Nathan handed a coin to the stable boy who brought Cedric.

“The roan there,” Wilkes said to the lad. To Nathan, he said, “There is more.”

“Bloody hell, I don’t think I can take more without the aid of at least a pint,” Nathan said, and swung up on his horse.

“Ah, but this will delight you. Were I Lambourne, I’d purchase one of Donnelly’s fastest mounts and ride for bonny Scotland posthaste.”

“Why?” Nathan demanded, not the least bit amused. “What’s he done?”

Wilkes grinned wolfishly, glanced around him, and stepped closer. “Has he ever mentioned a tryst with the Princess of Wales to you?”

Nathan very nearly choked. “No!” he exclaimed, disgusted. There was not a more unappealing woman in the kingdom than the Princess of Wales, Nathan thought, and he could scarcely imagine the dashing Lord Lambourne would find her any less so. Jack Haines was very particular about his bed partners, unlike Wilkes, who would bed any chit that would accept his coin, or Donnelly, who tended to become infatuated very easily.

“It’s true,” Wilkes said as the boy led the roan out. He was clearly enjoying the role of bearer of news. “It seems that during the investigation into Caroline’s misdeeds, Jack was named as one of her many lovers.”

“I would sooner believe that Benton had bedded the princess before I’d believe it of Lambourne,” Nathan said gruffly, but a small smile curved his lips. “Yet it certainly bears investigation, does it not? Come on, then, let us bring the news to Lambourne together, shall we?”

Benton met them in the foyer at Eastchurch. “Shall I have tea brought up, my lord?” he asked as he took the cloaks, hats, and gloves from the two men and sent a footman up to a guest room with Wilkes’s bag.