The Viscount's Vow (A Regency Romance) (19 page)

Chapter 21

It took over a week for Ian to track his sister to Gretna Green, only to find the giddy twosome had never been there. They’d sent decoys in their places.

It was almost ten days later—after inquiring at every parish, village, township, and hamlet on the way—before he finally caught up with the newlyweds. They were merry as grigs, ensconced in a quaint inn in Edinburgh.

He should have known his sister would send him on a false trail. Edinburgh was just across the border from Northumberland. It was only logical Charlotte and Monroe would fly there, not Gretna Green.

She’d made a May game of Ian, yet she was miffed with him for thinking she was genuinely interested in Pickering.

“Really, Ian, Lord Pickering is such a clod-pate. You, of all people, should have found it unfathomable I would have any interest in that buffle-headed coxcomb.”

Her mouth formed into a moue. “For pity’s sake, he’s more hair than wit.”

Frowning at him, she declared puckishly, “I’m offended, truly I am. That you’d think I’d make a cake of myself over the likes of Pickering—” She huffed and folded her arms. “Well, it’s beyond the pale.”

Ian was incredulous; not only at Charlotte’s selfish and calculating behavior, but at the gammon she’d pitched him and her mother. And they’d believed her. He remained obstinately silent, lost in his own recriminations.

He was an idiot.

After harrumphing a bit more, she dimpled. “I’m so happy. I simply cannot stay annoyed with you, dear brother, and I suppose I do owe you an apology.”

“Indeed you do, and not only me, but Miss Caruthers.”

He narrowed his eyes and made no attempt to keep the anger from his voice. “You intentionally tarnished her good name, all as part of a hoax? I never would have thought you capable of such calculated cruelty.”

He’d always hoped she’d be a more honorable and kind woman than her mother.

Charlotte blinked at him, opening and closing her mouth like a gasping trout. Finally, she sputtered, “I was but play acting.”

Recalling her most convincing histrionics and her hourly flood of tears, Ian said dryly, “Even your mother believed you to be enamored with the earl.”

Looking taken aback, a shadow flitted across Charlotte’s features. Casting an adoring glance at her husband, she conceded Ian’s point.

“Well, yes, but it was necessary lest Mother suspect my true affections lay elsewhere. And she was acting odd. Talking to herself, wandering about the woods in the wee hours, gathering all sorts of weeds and such—”

She paused, frowning. “Ian, she really was most peculiar, especially after Papa’s and Geoff’s deaths.”

Ian allowed there was some substance to that; a great deal of substance, truth to tell.

Charlotte’s doe-like brown eyes filled with tears. “After they died, I couldn’t bear to lose Trevor too.”

She snuffled into her handkerchief. “I simply couldn’t.”

“Why did you drag Miss Caruthers into your Cheltenham tragedy?” Ian was genuinely curious. Why had she involved Vangie in her theatrics?

“Well, as to that, brother dearest, one has only to meet Miss Caruthers to know she’s not any of those horrid things Mother and I alluded to. You’re so perceptive. I knew I could rely on you to fudge out the truth regarding her moral character straightaway.”

Angling her head, Charlotte studied him. “You didn’t seriously attempt to ruin, the sweet girl, did you?” For the first time, she appeared truly chagrined, concerned for someone other than herself.

“I married her.”

Charlotte’s reaction wasn’t at all what he expected. She squealed and clapped her hands before launching herself at him, and covering his face with kisses.

“It’s so perfectly romantic. I knew you’d see what a darling she is. You two are simply ideal for each other.”

She descended on her husband, wrapping her arms round him, and sighing. “Is it not wonderful, Trevor? Ian’s found love, too.”

Judging by the hungry look smoldering in Monroe’s eyes, Ian concluded his new brother-in-law had much more pressing matters on his mind than offering his congratulations. Namely how to courteously suggest Ian push off so Monroe could entice his wife into a satisfying afternoon tussle on the feather tick dominating the small rented room.

Obligingly, Ian bid them farewell, eager to return home to his own wife, and if fate were smiling kindly on him, mayhap begin his own honeymoon.

Twenty-two days after leaving Somersfield, Ian trotted Pericles into the paddock outside the extensive stables. It was past midnight. The night was wrapped in a cocoon of tranquility. A dove perched aloft in one of the massive oak trees looming over the main barn cooed sleepily.

Ian had always envisioned breeding the finest horseflesh in the north of England here. Now, with the acquisition of the Arabian blooded stock, he was pursuing that goal.

Gerard, the stable master, approached lantern in hand. His slow, shuffling gait gave Ian plenty of time to dismount. Another form plodded unhurriedly from the barn.

Gerard waved the sleepy groom away. “Go on with ye, Ben. I’ll see to the beasty.”

Mumbling an unintelligible answer, the young stable hand ambled back into the dark building. Soft welcoming nickers accompanied his return.

“Pleased to have ye home, Lord Warrick.” Gerard yawned sleepily, patting the lathered animal on his glistening neck. “Ye rode him hard, ye did.”

He began crooning softly to the stallion, his hands never breaking their soothing contact with the horse.

“Aye, I did at that.” Ian smiled. “I’ve a bride waiting for me.”

Slapping the dust from his thighs, he started for the manor. He called over his shoulder, “Rub him down well, won’t you, Gerard? And an extra portion of grain for him too. He earned it.”

Entering the silent manor, Ian made his way to his bedchamber. He ached to see Vangie, though he didn’t want to waken her this late. He sniffed, crinkling his nose in distaste. He sorely needed a bath. He’d not wake his valet nor disturb the other servants demanding bathwater at this ungodly hour. He’d have to wait until morning to greet his wife.

His wife
. He’d missed her more than he ought after such a short acquaintance. How had she fared in his absence? And more on point, were her thoughts as consumed with him as his were of her?

Exhaling a deep breath, Ian toed off his boots before stripping his garments with swift efficiency. Padding to the bathing chamber, he poured water into the basin, then washed off the worst of the travel grime.

He smiled to himself. He hoped Vangie was an early riser, for Lucinda assuredly was. She’d be demanding his attention straightaway once she learned of his return. His smile faltered, and a scowl took its place.

She had better have removed herself to the dower house as he’d directed. He’d no intention of residing under the same roof with that termagant now that Charlotte wasn’t in residence. He’d have preferred to have been present for the transition, especially to ease the adjustment for Vangie. Instead he’d hied off in needless pursuit of his sister.

Shaking his head in self-reproach, he splashed his hair and his unshaven face with the tepid water.

Charlotte was blissfully happy. She obviously adored the man she’d married, and Monroe was completely agog over her as well. As a wedding present, Ian, despite being thoroughly piqued with her, had offered a generous purse to the newlyweds and sent them on a well-deserved wedding journey.

Well-deserved because he had never given Charlotte credit for any degree of intelligence—or thought her the least bit capable of standing up to her mother. That lamentable business with Pickering? All a wretched ruse Charlotte concocted to keep Lucinda off Monroe’s scent.

She hadn’t done poorly for herself, by half, Ian concluded, toweling his dripping hair. He quickly wiped his face, then finished drying off.

Bother and blast. Lucinda wouldn’t be pleased he’d returned empty-handed. He’d deal with that difficulty on the morrow,
after
becoming reacquainted with his bride.

Slipping between the cool sheets, he lay back with his elbows bent, hands beneath his damp head. He’d send a message to the dower house in the morning, requesting an appointment with Lucinda in the afternoon. Staring at the canopied bed, his eyes drifted closed, his thoughts shifting to Vangie.

Morning couldn’t come soon enough.

Vangie tore to the chamber pot, casting up the contents of her stomach for the third time in the past week. She tottered to the makeshift washstand, then rinsed the foul taste from her mouth before running a damp cloth over her face. Hunched over the cracked basin, she drew in a deep breath. Another wave of queasiness assailed her.

Her stomach was empty. There was nothing left to vomit. The bland breakfast of watery porridge, tea, and dry toast she’d eaten moments before, now resided in the slop bucket. Dinner wasn’t much better. It usually consisted of a weak soup, a hunk of dry bread, and if she was lucky, a slice of cheese or a piece of fruit.

How much longer could she tolerate this unappetizing food? It often tasted peculiar, not unlike some of the medicinal herbs
Puri Daj
used to treat respiratory afflictions. No doubt Lucinda was feeding her half-spoiled leftovers which accounted for Vangie’s roiling stomach. She’d little appetite and ate less and less of the unappealing fare.

Wandering to the dilapidated armchair she’d tugged near the window, she flopped into it.

Jasper and Mrs. Tanssen had been absolute dears. They’d smuggled in candles, books, including Vangie’s Bible, her paints and crocheting, as well as more tempting, palatable foods whenever they could. It wasn’t often enough. According to Jasper, the dowager inspected every tray and bucket, and made the servants turn out their pockets before entering the tower.

Mrs. Tanssen had sneaked into the tower the first night. When the door creaked open, Vangie, huddled in a corner under a filthy blanket, had been terrified.

Seeing the housekeeper illuminated in the doorway she’d gasped, “Mrs. Tanssen? What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

Holding a candle in one hand, Mrs. Tanssen dangled a key in the other. “I provided that she-dog the key to this turret.” She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “But, I don’t feel the least bit obligated to tell her I have a master key. I can open every door in the manor.”

She dropped the key inside her pocket, then bent to retrieve something outside the door.

“Here, my lady, it’s only a blanket, a candle, and a bit of bread. I couldn’t hide anymore beneath my skirts this trip.”

Vangie hugged her. “Thank you.”

“I’d best be going. I have several more things stashed in a closet at the bottom of the stairs. I want to get them to you while Jasper is keeping watch outside the dowager’s chamber.”

Two days later, he’d crept into the tower. He told Vangie, “The dowager is like a rabid watchdog. She monitors our every move.”

He withdrew a book from his pocket along with some biscuits wrapped in a washcloth. “We have outwitted her though. One of us distracts her and the other high-tails it here.”

The sweet-faced maid, Ailsa, who brought Vangie her food, often stayed to visit, even though she was under strict orders not to. With her sandy-blonde hair and sky-blue eyes, the girl reminded Vangie of an unrefined version of Yvette. They were of the same age too, ten and seven.

“I don’t want you getting punished for defying the dowager, Ailsa,” Vangie told her.

“Her ladyship can blow biscuits out her bony arse. You’re the lady of the manor now, not that witch.”

Despite herself, Vangie’s lips had twitched. Though her face was angelic, Ailsa’s speech was anything but. She had no qualms about speaking her mind and doing so quite crudely.

Wrapping a blanket around her shoulders and across her lap, Vangie gazed at the scene beyond the window. It was early morn, not even eight yet, she guessed. She’d no clock, thus it was difficult to tell.

She was lonely, cold, hungry, and desperate for Ian to return. Each day that passed without his appearance, sent her further into the doldrums. A multitude of misgivings worked their wiles, whispering discouragement and filling her with hopelessness.

His continued absence gave credence to his stepmother’s claim he’d ordered Vangie locked away. The thought wrenched her heart. Despair squeezed her wounded spirit like an unrelenting vice. A tear trickled from her eye. She rubbed it away. No more tears.

She surveyed the travesty of a room the dowager had incarcerated her in. The window panes tossed thin shadows across the dusty floor. The cruelty behind her ladyship’s actions was beyond Vangie’s understanding. What drove someone to be so altogether vindictive?

It was evident the room was never used, except by a pair of bats that made their way inside each night. Vangie sneezed for a quarter hour straight the first day, such was the dust. Her bed originally consisted of a few moth-eaten blankets tossed on a lumpy, mildew-laden straw pallet on the floor.

Mrs. Tanssen smuggled clean blankets and a fresh tick over the course of the first few days, though how she managed without the dowager’s knowledge baffled Vangie. Except for the chair she currently sat in, and a rickety three legged pedestal table, the chamber was devoid of any furnishings.

Gazing out the window, a half-smile tilted the corners of   her mouth. She was certain the dowager had no idea how splendid the view was from the tower. It was a perfect setting for drawing and painting—if Vangie had the desire.

She didn’t.

Scanning the formal gardens and mazes below, she settled on her favorite scene—a pond on the other side of a large expanse of grass glistened happily in the morning sun.

Vangie could see black and white swans swimming leisurely across the blue-green surface. A listing footbridge hugged the east side of the pond. It joined a meandering path to a glorious wisteria covered arbor. Everything was overgrown and neglected, but the underlying beauty of Somersfield’s grounds was undeniable.