The Earl's New Bride (Entangled Scandalous) (16 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Henrietta raced up the rickety servant’s steps, Sarah bustling behind her, their slippers tapping out a rushed cadence on the way to Albina’s chambers.

“How long has it been since she collapsed?” Henrietta asked.

“Not long. I came as soon as the earl bade me to find you.”

“The earl knows of her illness?”

“Of course. He was still in the alcove when Cook told us of her plight. I sought you on his direction.”

Henrietta slowed, unsnagging her gown from a raised nail atop the step. Simon had no doubt sent Sarah to avoid seeing her himself. To avoid any awkward encounter. He had, after all, never contradicted her upon her departure from the alcove, his silence affirming Miss Saxton as the better match. Any confrontation between them would be strained at best, especially after…

“Had Cook not said Albina had a fever, I would have ascribed her dramatics to Lord Satterfield’s disinterest, but—”

“You told her?” Henrietta hissed. She stopped in front of the stairwell door and glared at Sarah. “Of his preference? Of his offer?”

“Despite our physical differences, we are twins, Henrietta. There are some things I am unable to hide from her.”

Henrietta opened the door and raced down the hall, sighing as she hurried across the carpet. That she could no longer think of Simon as her own was difficult enough, but to have her sister who, in all probability was aggrieved with her because of an offer she had not encouraged—indeed, did not even want, was worse.

She came to Albina’s door and lifted the latch. Every last one of the curtains had been drawn, the thick fabric blocking out the late afternoon sun. Their mother sat in the corner, her head lifting at their entrance. She waved her hands, motioning for them to come into the room.

Though dark, the room was not completely without light, allowing Henrietta to walk toward the bed without incidence.

“She will not eat or drink,” her mother whispered, the pinched lines around her mouth relaying her worry.

Henrietta nodded, nibbling her bottom lip and tiptoeing to the bed. “Has the physician been to see her?”

“No. I have received word he is detained, unable to come until tomorrow. I fear…” Her mother’s voice caught.

Henrietta peered at her sister’s flushed face. “Albina dear, Sarah informed me of your discomforts, and I’ve come to see if I can help.” Henrietta lifted her sister’s hand and gripped the warm flesh.

She lifted a lid. “I am so tired.”

“How is your head?” Henrietta brushed her fingers across Albina’s forehead, swiping off a dark curl.

“Well enough.”

“Excellent, though you need to have something to drink. I need not remind you how disobedient girls are reprimanded in this house,” Henrietta said with a smile.

“So long as it is tea from Sarah’s drawer. I do adore the rich flavor. They are some of your better blends, Henrietta.”

Lifting her head, Henrietta peered at Sarah. “What blends? You’ve been making tea?”

Sarah bit her lip. She swept past Henrietta to place her hand on Albina’s forehead. “You’ve been drinking the blends often?”

“Oh, yes,” Albina said with a yawn. “The licorice one is my favorite.”

“Licorice?” Henrietta grabbed Sarah’s arm, her heart racing. “
You
dug up the licorice plant and left it for the earl to find?”

“I did not intend for anyone to find anything,” Sarah hissed, her voice frantic. “He surprised me. I assumed he would be with Lord Satterfield off riding or hunting, or doing whatever it is men do together, not strolling through the gardens—especially yours.”

“God in heaven, Sarah. Without the proper study, one would not know licorice is harmful, creating aches, numbness, and fatigue in those who innocently overindulge.”

Their mother gasped, her hand flying to her chest. “You’ve been poisoning Albina, Sarah?”

Shaking her head, Sarah sputtered, “No, of course not. I would never poison my sister.”

“No, just the guests,” Henrietta whispered. “They weren’t ill at all, were they?”

“They were ill,” Sarah said with a defensive tone.

“Only because you made them so.”

“I read through Father’s books—”

“All of them?” Henrietta asked, heated. “Including the ones detailing the repercussions of known herbs and their effects on the body? The same ones that would have told you licorice is volatile? A devil’s herb one must use with extreme caution?”

Sarah bit her lip. “Perhaps not all, but I did not mean to harm anyone. I merely wished to keep our guests abed for a day or two.”

“A day or two? In large doses, licorice could keep one abed for weeks.”

Sarah rested her hand on Albina’s forehead, her face solemn. “You were so adamant in your desire for Plumburn, I simply wanted to ensure you got what you wanted, so I…I…”

“Increased my chances of being selected as the earl’s wife by eliminating my competition,” Henrietta finished. “Dear God.”

“Sarah,” their mother gasped. “What have you done?”

“What have you done, indeed?” asked a deep voice from the other side of the room.

“Simon.” Henrietta lifted her head, peering through the dim light, her heart leaping at his voice. He stood in the doorframe, the small space filled with his tall, broad form.

“My, my lord, I am truly sorry for my daughter’s behavior,” their mother sputtered. “I did not think her capable of—”

“I do not doubt that, madam, but your daughters”—his gaze lit on Henrietta and hardened—“have not only injured my guests, but my reputation as well.”

Sarah shook her head. “But I told you, I never meant—”

“What you intended is not my concern. What is, however, are the extenuating results from your interference.”

“Her heart was in the right place,” Henrietta whispered.

“Unlike others.” He stared at her, his gaze cold, without any trace of the warmth.

“I never meant any harm.”

“No, neither did your sister, or so she claims. And yet, Lady Albina lies ill, poisoned by her own twin’s hand.”

“I never poisoned—” Sarah began, but was silenced with the earl’s chilling glare.

“Do not lecture me on what you did not do when physical evidence lies in front of me, contradicting your objections.”

Henrietta’s heart sank, the icy glare from his gaze causing her to shiver. “Simon—”

“The gossip rags would have the
ton
believe I am a monster, a man intent on harming others, in particular those of your sex. And now, due to your machinations, your little plot to ensnare Plumburn, you have given ready proof to their suspicions.”

His voice had gone steely, every word cutting through her, making her wince. Because he spoke the truth. A fact he would now have to contend with, all because of her selfish desire to secure her father’s home. What had she done?

Standing, her mother touched a handkerchief to her chest. “Perhaps it would be best if we left and retreated to Rosehearst, while the dust…settles. Once Albina’s fever abates, of course.”

“Which hopefully will not be long,” said Henrietta, her voice flat. “Of course, her recovery is determinate upon the amount of licorice in her system, but there is nothing to do but allow the herb run its course.”

“After which we will depart. First thing,” said their mother. “I shall make the arrangements now, my lord.”

He nodded, his jaw clenching, and walked out of the room without another word or glance in Henrietta’s direction.

Swallowing back a lump of tears, Henrietta gripped Albina’s hand and squeezed. Things were as they should be, with her leaving Plumburn and Simon declaring for Miss Saxton…so why then, did everything feel so wrong?

…

A slow fire licked down Simon’s throat, the long draw of heated brandy potent in its flavor, but not its delivery, leaving him far too lucid for his taste.

He didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to ruminate on the events of the day, wanting only to wallow in the numb stupor promised by a full decanter of liquor.

But despite the late hour, the solitary confinement in his chambers, and the volume of the damnable liquid consumed, his thoughts continued down the path he wished them not to stray. To a dark-haired vixen, a temptress, a harbinger of pain—and one he bloody well knew to avoid.

The lure had been strong and he too weak, despite his past sorrows and experience. How many times was he destined to fall willingly into the trap laid by the fairer sex’s seductions? Fooling himself into believing any one of them were different? Or that he was actually worth their attentions? That he alone—not his fortune, his title, the mystery behind his name, hell, not even his damn house—was enough to win their love?

He was an ass. A damned, defeated, and heartbroken idiot who could not stop thinking about a woman whom he had actually believed had loved him. God, the very brandy he drank to forget Henrietta persisted in reminding him of her, the color of the liquor the same damnable shade of her anguish-filled eyes.

A knock at the door had him raising his head. “Yes?” he croaked.

The latch lifted and the heavy oak of the door creaked open. Satterfield, still in his dinner attire, strode through the frame, his handkerchief held up to his nose. “Dear God, Amhurst. I didn’t expect you to show restraint, but sho
uld the fire in the hearth get any higher, the whole bloody room will ignite.”

“So be it.”

Lowering his handkerchief, Satterfield rolled his eyes. “I spoke with Miss Saxton.”

“Then we are both aware of her immediate departure and no doubt her thoughts as to my kin’s misdirected efforts to secure my hand. I applaud you on your ability to ferret out precisely that which is none of your business.”

“I am your friend, Amhurst. I am here to assist you in your selection of a bride.”

“While offering for the woman I selected. Seems a little counterproductive, don’t you agree?”

“As I said before, it was out of respect for our friendship—”

“Friendship? You call an off-handed proposal to a woman, whom I clearly stated as a consideration for my bride, an act of friendship?”

Satterfield had the decency to hang his head. “I thought her unsuitable and Miss Saxton—”

“Yes, well you thought wrong. Miss Saxton, as you know, is leaving at first light. I am without a bride and the reputation you were so determined to salvage, remains in tatters. My brother will inherit and the Amhurst name will be stained beyond repair. Huzzah.”

Standing, Simon slammed his half-empty snifter atop the small table beside his bed, the fruity liquor sloshing over the rim. Whipping a handkerchief from his breast pocket, he wiped off his hand and stared out the window to the moonlit lawn.

“Perhaps I was wrong.”

Simon turned to face his friend, his confident, and rival. “I beg your pardon?”

Satterfield stared at his feet. “Perhaps…perhaps my efforts were misdirected.”

Simon frowned. “I fail to see where this little admission of yours—”

“Lady Henrietta, Amhurst. I thought only of your desire to reenter Society. I did not stop to give consideration to any…emotional attachments. Miss Saxton was the logical choice.”

“As you’ve already said.”

“Yes. But perhaps Lady Henrietta, however poor her qualifications for countess, may yet be the
better
choice.”

A bark of laughter escaped Simon’s lips. “How do you fancy that? You heard her, Satterfield. Her interest is in Plumburn. I am a means to an end.”

Lifting his head, Satterfield peered through the dim light cast by the dying fire. “Do you really believe that?”

Truth be known, he wasn’t bloody well sure what to believe.

His one opportunity for reclaiming honor within the
bon ton
, Miss Saxton with her powerful father, was leaving at first light. He ought to be depressed beyond measure, despairing over the loss of his reputation and his brother’s inevitable claim to the Amhurst wealth.

But he wasn’t.

Oh, he was melancholic to be sure, but he didn’t give a fig about his standing in Society or whether the whispers would be silenced with a well-suited match.

All he cared about was Henrietta.

Jesus.

The whispers would increase ten-fold due to her ill-fated plot…though even he could not claim full certainty of her involvement. Lady Sarah had been caught with her hands dirtied, her own admission spilling from her lips…but Henrietta… Lady Sarah had denied her sister’s involvement, had declared she had acted on her own and of her own volition.

He shut his eyes, his fingers lifting to his temple as pain, white-hot, pierced through his thoughts.

God, why did he do this to himself? Why did he allow for hope?

She was just like his mother, his father’s lover, and even Anne, all of them selfish in their desires…only…only…

Henrietta wasn’t selfish in her eagerness to assist Lady Georgiana in easing her suffering. Nor was she hesitant in helping him whenever his head ached—much as it did now.

He clenched his jaw against the pain throbbing behind his eyelids. She had waited for him in the gardens, had stood with a teacup at the ready, filled with a blend that had brought him a relief and slumber he fervently wished to repeat.

With her knowledge of herbs, it would have been easy to bring him further harm, to disable him, to inflict more suffering upon his guests. Anne certainly would have reaped the opportunities wrought by such an advantage.