Read the book: «The Wicked Truth»

Chapter One

London, November, 1858

“You can’t think to marry that wicked little tramp, Terry. She gulled you into proposing, didn’t she? God, I can’t believe how naive you are!” Neil Bronwyn knocked back his whiskey with an audible gulp and poured himself another. He felt like taking a stick to the boy. “Whatever possessed you to announce such a thing? And at White’s, of all places? Everybody’s laughing.”

“You think I care? Just because you’re eight years older, you think you can tell me—”

“Shut up and look around you, man,” Neil said with a sweeping gesture of his glass that threatened the Aubusson carpel. Havington treasures dotted even the study of the town house—expensive cherry, Ming dynasty vases, silver-crested crystal decanters, a Rembrandt drawing, a solid gold paper-weight with the family crest. A long-dead countess, immortalized by Vigée-Lebrun, glared at them from over a classic mantel designed by Wren. Probably turning in her grave, Neil thought. “Recall who you are, for God’s sake—an earl now, with all the responsibilities that come with it. Your name and title are who you are, Terry.”

“I will marry her,” the boy said simply. There was no belligerence now, no wrathful, rebellious tone. The angelic face with its guileless blue eyes looked calm and determined. The narrow shoulders were firmly set against Neil, who was easily twice his size. He admired the lad’s resolve, if not his cause.

Until the rascal spoke. “I will have her, Neil.”

“Then take her to bed if you must! But marriage? Hell, you’re only twenty-one. You have no conception of what commitment is all about, and she wouldn’t know the meaning of the word. I know you don’t believe me, but she’ll play you false before the ink dries on the license.”

Neil mellowed a bit after his outburst, both from the whiskey and a sharp wave of sympathy for the lad’s infatuation. He’d been where Terry was and survived it. The scar had healed. Almost. Watching his nephew struggle through a similar coil didn’t bear thinking about.

“She’s not that sort, Neil, regardless of what you think. I know you mean well,” Terry said with a protracted sigh, “but I’ll remind you that I am of age. The time has passed when you need to wipe my nose.”

“If you’d keep it clean, I wouldn’t have to,” Neil scoffed. “I promised Jonathan on his deathbed that I would—”

“I know, I know. Watch after me.” To Terry’s credit, he didn’t show half the resentment Neil knew he must be feeling. “Neil, he was a good father to me and to you as well, even if he was your older brother. You’ve always been more like a brother to me than an uncle. I do appreciate your concern, but…”

“But you’re the earl and will do as you damn well please, eh?” Neil asked, knowing the answer. The boy had a head like marble.

“Just so. I am the earl,” Terry said unequivocally.

“Then I bid you good night, my lord,” Neil said quietly. He set his glass down carefully on the mantel and strode to the door.

“Aw, Neil.” Terry came after him and caught his arm. “Don’t leave angry.”

“Just leave, eh?” Neil offered a tired smile with the tired joke. He loved his nephew and hated to see the boy distressed. But damn it all, how could he stand idly by and do nothing while Terry wrecked his future? “Meet you at the races on Saturday?”

Terry nodded once and let go of his sleeve.

“I’ll see myself out,” Neil told him. “And, Terry…please think very carefully about all the repercussions of this, won’t you?”

Lost in his thoughts, Neil strode down the brick walkway to his waiting carriage. Terry left him no alternative but to approach the woman. Hell, he couldn’t even buy her off; she already had a bloody fortune. Perhaps if he appealed to her sympathy, Lady Marleigh would be willing to set her sights elsewhere. Not likely, though, if all he heard was true.

Old Marleigh’s daughter had a reputation as black as the devil’s hoof, smutted beyond repair by every wagging tongue in London. The Gazette published accounts of her antics almost weekly. She had to have worked damned hard to ruin herself so completely in the four months since her father’s death. Totally wild, they said, as amoral as an alley cat. Worse than Caro Lamb, old Byron’s paramour. And God knew that one had been a trollop of the first water. Decades later her adventures were still legend, just as Lady Marleigh’s were becoming.

Neil peered out into the night as his carriage trundled along toward his bachelor digs near the hospital. The foggy night and his mission left him with a chill that his fox-lined cloak couldn’t warm. Godamercy, he should be with the army now, where he could do some good. Horrible as it was, he’d at least felt. useful. What the hell was he doing here, trying to sort out Terry’s life when his own lay in pieces?

If only Jon had lived. Coming home on leave had been a mistake. Would it have been any easier if Neil had heard of his brother’s death while in the Crimea? Would he still be alive if the fox hunt to entertain Neil had never taken place?

Jon’s deathbed request had forced Neil to resign his commission so he could stay and look after Terry. Pitiful job he had made of that! The three months he had needed to study the latest medical developments—first in Florence, then in Boston—had been three too many away. He never should have left Terry at such a vulnerable point—orphaned, young, newly titled, inexperienced. And ripe for plucking by a jaded little tart who knew exactly what she was doing. Women like that were a scourge!

Jon had always been so careful about the Bronwyn name and the Havington title. How adamant he was, even as he drew his last few breaths, that Neil protect the boy and give him proper guidance until he gained maturity. With both his mother and father dead, Terry would have no one else, Jon had said.

Why couldn’t Jon have survived and handled this himself? Neil cursed his brother’s carelessness in taking a jump beyond his mount’s ability. He despaired at the helplessness he felt watching his brother die. All those years spent becoming a physician and he could do nothing. Jon lay dead only half a year, and now his only son planned a marriage that would destroy him socially, politically and probably emotionally as well. No, by God, Neil vowed, he’d do his duty by Jon, and by Terry as well. He’d put a stop to this if it was the last thing he ever did.

Neil pulled out his watch; it was a bit past ten. He ran a gloved thumb over the timepiece, considering whether it might be too late. Then he raised his malacca cane and rapped on the top of the carriage. When it slowed and his driver peered down through the small opening, Neil ordered, “To St. James’s, Oliver. Marleigh House.” Might as well have done with this distasteful business now. Tonight.

Elizabeth Marleigh stuffed her traveling case to bursting and sat on top to pack it down for fastening. Footsteps in the hallway gave her just enough time to drag it off the bed and see if she could lift it. “What?” She answered the knock.

“Sorry, milady, but there’s a doctor downstairs in th’ foya wishin’ to speak wi’ you. Says it’s frightful urgent,” the tweenie said, sounding upset. “Mr. Thurston’s abed and I didn’t know where ta put—”

“Tell him I’ll be down directly,” Elizabeth interrupted. Who had called a doctor? Thurston complained so constantly she hardly paid attention anymore. She hadn’t seen him up and about for several days, though. No doubt he’d been just as useless in his prime, when he’d been in her uncle’s employ. She ought to have turned him off when her father died, but he had nowhere else to go. Butlers in their dotage were in short demand. Maybe the doctor would recommend retirement and she could let Thurston go with a pension. Well, with her away in Scotland, there would be very little for him to do but rest and recover, anyway.

She quickly buttoned the jacket of her traveling frock and pushed her untidy hair back off her brow. With her regular maid gone and Thurston indisposed, no one would question her plans or know where she had headed.

The doctor waited at the bottom of the stairs, his hat and cane gripped tightly in one leather-gloved hand while he tucked away his timepiece with the other. Ready to leave already, thought Elizabeth. Thurston must not be too seriously ill, then. “So, how is he faring, Doctor?” she asked, eager to have the interview over so she could be on her way.

“Truly besotted, I should think,” the doctor answered with a quirk of one dark brow.

The small movement drew Elizabeth’s notice to his face. Good Lord, he was handsome…and familiar. But no, she’d have remembered meeting this one, she was certain. She shook her head to clear it. He was just the physician and they were discussing Thurston. “Sotted, you say? He drinks?” She’d never known Thurston to indulge before. “Peculiar.”

The doctor grunted impatiently, shifting his cane to his right hand. “Don’t treat this lightly, my lady. I’m asking you, pleading if I must, to let him go gracefully. And as gently as you may.”

“Let him go? Of course, I was just thinking I should have done so months ago.” She wondered where Thurston would go. Perhaps her cousin, Colin, would offer him a cottage on the estate for retirement, just for old times’ sake. The old man fairly worshipped the son of his old employer. “He’ll be upset, of course, but you’re quite right. I’ll make it as painless as possible, I promise you.”

He smiled then, and her knees almost gave way. Devastating was the word that came to mind. The man was devastating. Dangerously so. Women patients, ill or not, must fall at his feet with astounding regularity. He was well over six feet tall and built like a brick wall. The somber black waistcoat, trousers and knee-high boots emphasized his build. A snowy shirt, one with the new turndown collar and soft, unstarched cravat gave him a sort of Bohemian air. He carried a wide-brimmed, low-crowned hat, also black, fashionable but still a bit daring. As was his scent, not the usual bay rum or witch hazel most men wore, but spicy and unidentifiable, subtly teasing.

There was an easy grace about him, a comfortable acceptance of his form that communicated itself. Dark blue eyes, almost black, glittered like gemstones in their lush, black-rimmed settings. Midnight hair, carelessly brushed back, tick-led his collar. A deep wave of it fell over his forehead and right temple, softening his strong features. His nose was long and nobly formed, accented by sharply planed cheekbones. Smooth skin, slightly tanned, spoke of outdoor exercise. Of course a doctor would take care of himself. This man looked as though he worked at it. And his mouth…

Elizabeth cleared her throat and held on to the newel post for support. Men didn’t affect her this way. They just didn’t. Or they never had before. She felt so stunned she hardly heard his next words.

“I hadn’t expected such understanding,” he said. “You’re being a real brick about this, Lady Marleigh, and I want you to know I do appreciate it.”

“Thank you for saying so, but it’s no great thing. I can easily find someone else,” she mumbled automatically. Then she squinted at him. “Have we met before, Doctor?”

“No,” he said amiably, still smiling. “I don’t believe we have. Perhaps it’s just the family resemblance—the eyes, I’m told. Most people remark on it. I’m always flattered, but Ter-rence—”

“Terry! You’re Terry’s uncle! I recall he mentioned you were a doctor just returned from serving with the army. What a coincidence you’ve come…”

Then the truth dawned—the awful truth about why he was here in her foyer. She shrank inside, a painful shrinking that made her feel queasy. Her face hardened and felt as though it would shatter. “You didn’t come about Thurston, did you?” she asked in a near whisper. “This isn’t about him at all.”

His smile vanished. The beautifully molded lips drew into a thin line, white around their edges, before he spoke. “I’m sure I don’t know a Thurston. If he’s another of your conquests, I have no interest in him. All I want is for you to withdraw your affections—and your claws—from my nephew.”

Elizabeth fought the rage rising inside her. She had almost forgotten for a moment—for a sweet, blessed moment, while talking to a man who didn’t pounce before greeting—that she could expect no more than revulsion, leering or lust. She ached to slap his face, to scream at him and tear out his hair. How could she have believed for a second that he was any different? “And if I don’t withdraw, Doctor? If I refuse?”

He drew himself up to full height, seeming to tower over her even though she stood on the second step up. “Then, my lady, you must believe that I’ll do anything necessary to remove you from his life.” He paused—for effect, she thought—before adding ominously, “Anything.”

Oh God, he was the one! It was him! Fear gripped her like a vise and she couldn’t move. Her eyes cut from one side of the deserted foyer to the other, searching for help. Why had she dismissed all the servants? Only a bedridden butler, a wine-soaked cook and a hen-witted between-stairs maid were all she had left in the house. None of them could do the least bit of good against this threat. Terror choked off her breath and she felt faint.

“Do you understand?” he asked in a gravelly tone that chilled her blood.

Elizabeth nodded.

“Then take care of it.”

Without a further word of farewell, he turned on his heel and marched out the door. It banged shut with a whoosh of cold November air.

Elizabeth collapsed on the stairs and clutched the rail for a long moment until her heart stopped pounding in her ears. Then, with a haste that threatened her footing, she raced up to her room, grabbed her overstuffed valise and ran down the back stairs to the carriage house.

Humphrey stood waiting, and the coach was ready, just as she’d ordered earlier. “North,” she gasped breathlessly as she shoved her case at him and scrambled inside. “And make haste.”

The wheels bounced over the cobbles, vibrating the inside of the carriage as though coach springs hadn’t been invented yet.

Elizabeth tried to calm herself by calculating the time it would take to reach Scotland. No one would expect her to go there. Hardly anyone knew about her father’s old hunting box. It wasn’t grand enough that he would have invited any of his cronies to it. He had purchased it in his youth and kept it strictly as a refuge for the times he wanted to spend alone. She would never have known about it herself had they not gone to Edinburgh earlier this year. A quick stop on the way home to insure the lodge was properly stocked was the only clue he’d ever given that it existed.

She would take the carriage to Edinburgh, dismiss Humphrey and ride alone to the lodge. It would be a perfect place to hide.

The doctor couldn’t kill her if he couldn’t find her. Oh, she understood full well why he wanted to, but it did seem a little extreme. Why had he waited until tonight to warn her? He must be a fool to think she needed three attempts on her life to scare her into heeding his demand.

She would never have married Terrence Bronwyn, anyway. Hadn’t she told him as much time and again? He seemed to have some misguided notion of restoring her to society. Saving her from the wolves of the ton, as he had put it. Righting the wrongs. She’d reminded him it was a bit too late for that. Those wolves had already ripped her to shreds, and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.

Now that she knew who wanted her dead, all she could do was disappear for a few months until Terry—and this murderous uncle of his—forgot about her. Maybe she’d never come back. Life alone in a hunting box couldn’t be nearly so bad or so lonely as life in her London town house…. By the time they left the cobblestoned streets for the open road, Elizabeth had drifted into a fitful sleep.

Neil almost turned back an hour into the journey. It was fairly obvious now that the woman wasn’t on her way to meet Terry. When he’d seen her carriage careen past his at breakneck speed, a possible elopement had been his first thought. Where the devil was she going in such a lather? Curiosity prevented him from abandoning his surveillance. That, and the possibility that she might be meeting someone else. Now that would be helpful. As soon as Terry found out about her rendezvous with another man, surely he would wake up to the facts, see her true character—or rather, the lack of it.

A guilty thought worried its way up from the back of Neil’s mind. She might be running from him after that intimidating little speech of his. Terrorizing women wasn’t a thing to be proud of, and Elizabeth Marleigh had definitely been terrified.

“She deserved it!” he said aloud. “Fractious twit.” Who did she think she was to play fast and loose with the earl of Havington? She’d admitted her willingness to give over that Thurston fellow, whomever he was. Hopefully, she’d be showing poor Terry the gate next. The lad would get over it, of course, but not if they became locked in a meaningless marriage.

Neil could see how Terry had become entranced, though. The girl was a goer—wicked as sin, but with the innocent air of a schoolroom miss. Who could resist that? If he didn’t know all she’d been up to, Neil admitted to himself he might have… No!

He certainly had more sense than to involve himself with another like her, even temporarily.

Emma Throckmorton had been enough to make a man swear off women entirely. Well, almost entirely. Neil hadn’t had the slightest urge to commit himself to more than a quick night’s pleasure in the last six years. No, he had learned his lesson quite well, thank you. The moment he found himself looking cow eyed at a woman again he’d take a bloody scalpel to his wrists and be done with it. Less suffering that way.

This Marleigh woman might be one of the most beautiful he’d seen in some time, but beauty meant nothing. Her hair was odd—a lovely color, red-gold, but no longer than a finger’s length all over her head. He had to admit the feathery curls set off those liquid brown eyes entirely too large for her face, that pert nose with its flaring little nostrils and the generous mouth enclosed by dimples. The whole of it came together like a well-written sonnet—marvelous to admire but imperative to leave alone.

Devil it all! Her face counted for little but good skin and a fortunate arrangement of features. And body parts, of course. Oh yes, luck favored Lady Marleigh in that respect as well. She possessed a slender bone structure that would age quite well. Dainty women were the worst kind, in his opinion, for a man to tangle with. Neil catered to the robust type himself, women who were sturdy enough to look after themselves, women who didn’t rouse his protective instincts. He and his nephew would both do well to stay away from the likes of Elizabeth Marleigh.

His thoughts ran on along the same lines until he felt the carriage pull to a stop. Instantly alert, he stuck his head out the window and met little but dense fog. Only small, wavery blobs of light penetrated the gloom.

Oliver leaned over the side to speak. “Inn up ahead,” sir. Think it’s th Dowdy Maid. Th’other rig pulled up just now so I stopped outa sight. Whatcha want ta do?” The driver shifted his close-fitting cap and scratched his head.

“Pull up beside the stables and wait. Maybe they stopped to eat.”

“No, sir,” Oliver said. “They’ll be in fer the night. Stable lad’s unhookin’ the team and her man took her bag inside.”

“Well, keep the team hitched. I’ll be going back to town shortly.” When they reached the stables, Neil alighted, left his puzzled driver and approached the inn.

Stepping just inside the doorway, he carefully kept to the shadows. Elizabeth Marleigh’s back looked tense and ramrod straight as she argued with the innkeeper. “I must have a private room, sir,” she said.

“Sorry, there ain’t none available. Ye’ll have to sleep in the common.” The man eyed her with suspicion, probably because she was not attended by a chaperon or even so much as a maid. It just wasn’t done, even in these enlightened times, Neil thought. At least not by respectable women.

“Oh, but you see, my husband is joining me later tonight. He’ll be expecting his comfort when he comes to meet me.” She turned on the charm. Very convincing charm, Neil admitted. Of course, the coin she pushed forward didn’t hurt her effort any. He could imagine the batting eyelashes even though he couldn’t see them.

The man pointed up the stairs and handed her a large key. “Number three.”

With a nod, she hefted her leather valise and headed up the stairs.

So her husband was joining her, eh? Neil thought about Terry’s insistence that he meant to marry the woman come hell or high water. Could Terry be meeting her here? If not, why hadn’t she simply declared earlier that she had already terminated their relationship?

Lord, he’d stumbled on their elopement in progress!

This demanded drastic action. He had to do something before Terry arrived, something to stop this tragedy from taking place and ruining his nephew’s future.

Neil slipped back out into the swirling fog, virtually feeling his way to the carriage.

“Oliver, when I go back inside, pull up in front and leave the door open for me. Hold that lantern over here.”

The driver complied as Neil reached in for his medical bag. He extracted a small, brown, stoppered bottle and pocketed it, stowing the bag under the seat once more.

“I’ll have a patient with me. When we come out, I want you to drive west to Bearsden, posthaste. No stops.”

“All th’ way to Middlesex? In this soup? But, sir—”

“I know the place is not staffed, but we’ll need privacy. Absolute quiet.” Neil shot the man a pointed look that dared him to question the business any further.

“Aye, as ye say, sir. Bearsden ‘tis then. Posthaste.” He saluted with a tug of his cap and a sly, gap-toothed grin.

Neil reentered the inn and looked around the taproom. The Marleigh driver hadn’t come in, probably intending to sleep in the stables. Neil approached the burly keeper. “I’m to meet my wife—short woman, reddish hair, dark eyes. Which room?”

The man squinted and pursed his lips. “Maybe she’s here, maybe she ain’t.”

Neil sighed, plopped two guineas on the bar and cocked his head. “She’s been quite ill, the poor dear, in hospital until yesterday. Did she seem all right?”

“Can’t say. Don’t care. Third room on the right, top o’ th’ stair,” the man said, hefting the coins in his hand.

The stairs creaked under Neil’s weight, and he fingered the bottle in his pocket as he climbed. At the third door he stopped, saturated his handkerchief with the concoction, re-stoppered the bottle and knocked softly. He heard her answer, “Yes?”

“Hurry, darling, you must hurry! He’s coming!” he whispered frantically, hoping she’d take him for his nephew.

It worked. The door opened a crack and Neil pushed his way through. She opened her mouth to scream and he covered her face with the wadded linen. She fought him, struggled wildly for a few seconds and then collapsed against his chest. Quickly, he lifted her deadweight in his arms and laid her on the bed.

How light she was, like swan’s down. So delicate. He turned her this way and that until he had her securely bundled in her cloak. Then, cursing, he awkwardly shut her overstuffed suit-case and carried them both downstairs.

“A relapse,” he explained to the wide-eyed innkeeper. Managing the door latch with some difficulty, Neil exited the inn with his burden, dumped her into the waiting coach and climbed in behind her. He arranged his little charge in a comfortable position as Oliver barreled through the fog toward Middlesex.

The tiny witch would have a hell of a headache when she woke up, but nothing compared to the one she’d probably give him. What did one do with a shameless, greedy female secluded in a deserted old manor house to make her want to stay awhile?

Neil dismissed his scruples and smiled. The possibilities seemed deliciously endless.