The Notorious Widow (2 page)

That had been her mistake, she admitted ruefully as she handed Sarah a chunk of bread before settling under a tree. His one true charge had been that she’d brought this on herself. If only she had stopped to think that day. But she had been too furious to remember how dangerous he was. So she’d insulted him.

She shook her head. How could she have revealed her contempt? He had been persecuting her ever since, spreading rumors that she was a light-skirt. There wasn’t a gossip in the area who believed her virtuous. Some looked askance at her sisters, distrusting the notorious widow’s influence. And now he was turning on Sarah.

Her hand shook. She couldn’t let him hurt Sarah, yet the only way to guarantee her safety was to leave – an impossibility. Without funds, she could not even afford a remote cottage.

Again she cursed herself for exposing Sarah, though this attack made little sense. He could have threatened Sarah without staging a scene in the middle of High Street. By confronting her in such an intimate fashion, he’d risked exposing his part in the rumor campaign. And all to convince the stranger that she was his mistress. But why?

She bit her lip to keep from crying. The stranger must be every bit the powerful lord her imagination had conjured. Perhaps he was pompous enough to complain to William about her presumed misdeeds, in which case her situation would soon worsen. But that seemed unlikely. Few gentlemen would intrude on total strangers.

Maybe Jasper had seen the man’s interest in Sarah and thought he might form an alliance with them. Yet that worked only if Jasper recognized the stranger and feared his power, something she could not envision. Jasper feared no one.

Did he hope to spread news of her downfall beyond Devonshire? It would be pointless. She rarely traveled beyond Exeter, so disapproval in distant places could not harm her.

It didn’t matter. This incident exposed her dreaming as the fantasy it was. Her family was doomed. No prince would appear to raise them from impoverished obscurity. Visiting Bath would do no good. Jasper would never allow an alliance with anyone desirable. Her flash of temper had condemned her sisters to spinsterhood.

Fighting back tears, she watched Sarah coax a squirrel to her hand. Sunlight glinted on the cathedral’s rose window, reminding her that at least one power knew the truth. But it was unlikely that she would find vindication before Judgment Day.

“No,” she swore, spurning despair.

She unclenched her fists, drawing peace from the scene. And strength. Somehow, she must fight back, expose Jasper as the source of these spurious rumors, and discredit his word. It was the only way to salvage Sarah’s future.

* * * *

Fury dimmed Blake’s vision as the dandy bade farewell to his paramour with yet another blatant caress. If they were so lost to propriety as to make public spectacles of themselves, that was their business. But exposing an innocent child to their sordid behavior made it everyone’s business.

The woman behind him agreed. “Scandalous!” she snorted, adding pithier remarks as she stalked away.

Society should protect its children from scenes like this one. But Exeter society had clearly failed to do so. Why had no one protested when that girl’s family had hired a courtesan as her governess? If her father stood before him right now, Blake would demand satisfaction. Such disregard for morality was unconscionable.

No wonder the woman had evoked such lurid images in his mind. His instincts had seen past the charming façade to the temptress beneath. She was no better than the whores who importuned him whenever he left a London theater. Had she earned this post by seducing the girl’s father? Perhaps she hoped to extract an offer from the fellow, though entertaining others would jeopardize a more respectable future.

Cursing, he headed for the bookseller’s.

The girl had seemed frightened and confused by the suggestive repartee, but it would not be long before she understood what her governess was doing. Intelligence had lurked in her eyes. Already she was asking questions. The answers would forever strip away that charming innocence, replacing it with harsh disillusionment. And he had no doubt she would find those answers. The dandy was the sort who would enjoy providing them.

Again he cursed, launching a mental diatribe against the girl’s father that pointed out the importance of choosing good teachers, moral teachers, pillars of propriety. How would the girl find a husband after being raised by a wanton? He visualized the father’s horror, his shock, his determination to rectify the mistake—

It was an exercise that had often relieved frustration after his own father had dissipated the family fortune. But this time, his mental curses had no effect. How dare she accept the care and teaching of an innocent, then slip away to consort with rakes? If she wanted to be a courtesan, why pretend propriety?

Imagining her black hair spread across a pillow, her witch’s eyes laughing up at him, increased his fury. Circe, indeed. She certainly knew how to attract attention. So why saddle herself with a respectable position when she could do so much better on her own?

The questions filled his mind, as did the rage he could not explain. So he clung to the memory of the child – warm, intelligent, and oh so innocent. Her silver eyes and blonde curls stirred protective instincts he hadn’t known he possessed – which was why his temper shattered when he left the bookshop an hour later and ran the woman down.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” he snapped.

Her blue eyes widened as she stepped in front of the girl in a mockery of protection. The wind billowed her cloak, molding her gown around delectable legs.

“How dare you flaunt your liaisons on a public street?” he continued, ignoring the rise in his temperature. “It is bad enough to espouse indecency, but you have no right to expose a child to such vice.”

“You are mistaken, sir,” she protested, but her cheeks darkened in shame.

“I am not mistaken. I saw that disgusting display. You and that popinjay may go to perdition however you choose, but I cannot let you harm others. Who is your employer? Does he know that he hired a wanton?”

Anger blazed in her eyes, increasing his own. “Do you always jump to ridiculous conclusions, sir?” she snapped. “Surely a gentleman would discover the facts before heaping insults on a stranger. You are as dishonorable as those you condemn.”

“You overstep your place,” he growled, fisting his hands to keep from shaking her.

“How would you know?” Her free hand poked him in the chest. “You must be one of those arrogant lords who never admit fault. Why else would you demand that I bow to your misguided wishes? Well, you can go to perdition, sir. I don’t take orders from cads. And I never obey blithering idiots.” She turned to leave.

“This isn’t about me.” He grabbed her arm, then cursed as heat sizzled into his hand. Wanton, indeed. Circe herself could not incite such yearning.

“Isn’t it?” she demanded. “Look at yourself. You know nothing about me, yet you create a public spectacle by accusing me of fictitious crimes. You hold me captive while you abuse me, then blame me for your lack of control. I won’t stand for it.” She glared at his hand. “Release me or I will throw a fit guaranteed to mortify you for years. I’ve never encountered such a pompous fool.”

“Who is your employer?” Rage burned red around the edges of his vision.

“None of your business!”

A whimper distracted him. The girl peered around the woman’s side, tears shimmering in her eyes. His heart contracted. Circe was right. He was behaving as badly as she.

But he refused to abase himself to a wanton. Abandoning the argument, he stalked toward his hotel. He would discover her direction elsewhere. The situation must be rectified, but subjecting the child to a public brawl was unacceptable.

So is hurling insults into a stranger’s face.

He frowned, cringing as he reviewed his behavior. He should not have lost his temper – would not have done so if he hadn’t already been furious. The map had not been at all as advertised. In fact, it had been a complete fake. And discovering that the governess was wanton had done nothing to decrease his lust. He’d spent the last hour alternately cursing himself for wanting her and wondering whether the stationer was a forger or merely a fool. Now tomorrow would be worse. Instead of leaving for home, he must discover the girl’s parents and see that this so-called governess was turned off.

And what then? taunted his conscience. Will you offer her your protection?

CHAPTER TWO

William Seabrook drained his glass and headed for the door. His horse should be ready by now.

The White Hart Inn
was not one of his usual haunts. He found its massive beams and dark paneling oppressive and its flagged floors cold. His own taste ran to the Golden Stag, as much for its lower prices as for its warmth. But the White Hart was useful when he wished to avoid acquaintances. Like today. He’d needed an afternoon with a certain widow, but had to avoid his sister, who was also in town. How could he explain that he sometimes experienced urges he could not control? Not only had he long criticized others for indulging their unseemly desires, but rumors made this a bad time to pursue the baser pleasures.

He shook off his guilt, setting his hat firmly on his head. It was done. He’d seen no one he knew. Now relaxed for the first time in days and fortified against the chill of the approaching storm, he was heading home.

As he stepped into the hallway, the outside door burst open on a gust of wind, admitting a swirl of leaves and a gentleman. It took a moment to place the face, for he hadn’t seen it in twelve years.

“Blake Townsend!” he exclaimed before recalling that the man was now an earl. “Or Rockhurst, I should say. What are you doing in Exeter?”

“Passing through.” Rockhurst smoothed a frown from his forehead.

William’s mind worked furiously as they exchanged pleasantries. He had met Townsend at Eton, though the man had been two forms ahead of him, so they had not been close. But perhaps he could turn this encounter to advantage. Might Rockhurst be interested in his sister?

He couldn’t ask, of course. Rockhurst would be accustomed to fending off title seekers and matchmakers. Only a plausible excuse would entice the man to the manor.

Fortunately, he had one. Blake Townsend was a fair-minded champion of justice. At Eton he had used his standing as heir to an earldom to prevent the stronger, higher-ranking students from harming timid or baseborn boys, most notably in the Easley case.

Reginald Easley, a solicitor’s brilliant son, had been a favorite of the tutors, which had irritated an unprincipled group of students headed by Lord Dabney. One day Easley was called upon to correct Dabney’s wrong answer to a simple question, an insult worsened when Dabney’s friends ridiculed him for his mistake. Easley turned up head-to-toe bruises the next morning.

Townsend had been furious. He believed lords should protect those beneath them, so he’d arranged to have Dabney permanently sent down. The tutors never learned who was really behind the incident, but the other students knew. They soon discovered that Townsend did not tolerate persecution. Honest competition was one thing, abuse of power quite another.

His reputation as a champion of the downtrodden did not endear him to some, but he refused to ignore his principles. Woe betide anyone who preyed on the weak, abandoned honor, or planned a prank that might cause injury. Current rumor speculated that Rockhurst had contrived the recent exposure of Dornbras as a procurer for London brothels.

Townsend had also been intrigued by challenges, which explained his insistence on taking personal charge of his inheritance after his father had died. He had been gone from Eton two years by then, but everyone knew the story. Blake had found the estate on the verge of ruin. Instead of returning to Oxford, he had fired his father’s advisors, hired Easley to rescue his investments, then taken up the reins of the estate himself. Reportedly, he had rebuilt his fortune several times over. Some hinted that he had done it through unscrupulous means, but William refused to believe it. That did not fit his character.

As he followed Rockhurst into a private parlor, he smiled. What more could he want for his sister Laura? Rockhurst had a title, wealth, a pleasing appearance, and a history of fairness.

“Will you be here long?” he asked as Rockhurst poured wine.

“A day or so.” He shrugged. “I only stopped to see if an ancient map Cavendish is offering would fit my collection.”

“I doubt Cavendish has anything of interest unless he printed it himself,” he warned.

“So I believe. He shan’t make that mistake again.” His expression sent shivers down William’s spine, though it confirmed that the man had not changed since school. Cavendish would be on the next ship to Australia.

If anyone could champion Catherine’s cause, it would be Rockhurst. And if helping Catherine placed him in Laura’s company, the man could hardly cry foul. Laura’s charm would soon bind him. No gentleman could ignore her. If only she weren’t so particular. She’d sent every one of them packing.

“If you can remain a few days longer, I need help.” William drained his glass, then stared at the fire, projecting an image of despair. “My sister is being unjustly persecuted, but I am powerless to counter the villain’s plot. Perhaps your greater standing could rescue her.”

“What tale is this?”

William paused. He had only one chance to win Rockhurst’s interest. “Catherine married our vicar some years ago. They made a formidable pair, working tirelessly to aid the poor, protect the innocent, and bring the unscrupulous to the attention of those in authority. Even after Harold’s death, she continued that work – our new vicar is more interested in hunting than in his duty to church or community.”

“Not unusual,” murmured Rockhurst, pouring more wine.

William sipped. “All was well until a neighbor began twisting her work to destroy her reputation. His rumors impute a more nefarious purpose to her visits.”

“Fomenting rebellion?” Rockhurst frowned.

“Debauchery.” He cursed himself. Of course Rockhurst would think first of political scheming. It was much on the minds of many men in these turbulent times. He forced the details past his lips – it always upset him to imagine his sister engaging in such sordid activity. “The rumors credit her with liaisons enough to weary a courtesan. Despite her denials, too many gossips believe him.”