She swung her legs to the floor and sat up. When she looked at him, the heat in her eyes was gone, weary acceptance in its place. “Do you intend to go public?”
His anger eased, deflated by the submission in her voice. “I have no wish to see you in prison. Word will be spread that you suffered a miscarriage.”
She bowed her head and gave a single nod.
“I want you packed and gone by the end of the week. You will leave voluntarily, quietly, no fuss.”
She nodded again.
“I claim no responsibility for you. You may take your relatives and whatever staff with you. I will grant you a small settlement that should keep you fed, clothed, and sheltered. If you manage your finances, you should be able to live a comfortable, modest existence.” Nick paused for breath, adding, “Given the circumstances, I think I am being more than generous. It is more than my father ever gave my mother or me.”
She continued to nod, a ceaseless bobbing of her head, unable or unwilling to offer up a response. Strangely, that only annoyed him. Where had her fire gone?
“If you run out of funds, don’t come to me. Understood?” He grasped her chin with hard fingers and forced her to look at him. “Say you understand,” he demanded, ignoring the softness of her skin, as tender as any newborn’s beneath his fingers. “I’ll have your word that you will disappear from my life completely.”
“You have my word.” He watched her swallow. Her eyes deepened to a dark green, the color of a shaded forest glen. “I will be only too happy never to see you again.”
Satisfied, he spun on his heels, stopping at the door to look back at her for one interminable moment. She met his stare head on, fisting the fabric of her gown.
“You made a fool of me,” he admitted, hating even that small admission. She had elicited his concern and compassion, emotions he could never remember feeling toward another woman. Emotions too damnably close to those he felt for no single soul save his mother.
He tore his eyes from her before he could examine that insight closer and left, letting the door bang shut after him.
Chapter 12
Eleanor crouched behind a large potted fern near the salon door, her hands clenched tightly in determination. From her location she had managed to hear most of Meredith’s conversation with Lord Brookshire. It had taken a little time to get rid of the physician. She correctly surmised that his belly would be his weakness—the case with most men—and abandoned him in the kitchen with a plate of Cook’s gingersnaps. She had overheard Lord Brookshire’s dreadful plans for them. Sending them on their way with a mere pittance was not to be borne.
She ducked low, crouching behind the fern when Lord Brookshire quit the salon and again, moments later, when Meredith departed. Both went in opposite directions. She upstairs. He to the library.
No doubt her niece intended to start packing. Eleanor adjusted her turban as she stepped out from behind the fern. She stared resolutely at the library doors where Lord Brookshire had closeted himself. One thing was for certain. She did not intend to spend her final years in a cottage the size of a shoe, squeezing the blood from every coin while her senile brother breathed down her neck and ranted about Papist spies. The time had come to take matters into her hands. Releasing a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. She would see about changing Lord Brookshire’s mind.
Facing Napoleon’s army could not have intimidated her any less than confronting Lord Brookshire. Yet his wrath seemed reserved for Meredith. He had no inkling of her own involvement, that the scheme had in fact been her idea—heavens be praised. At any rate, she suspected his anger was more wrapped up in male pride than true outrage over her niece’s actions.
Eleanor paused in front of the library. The clinking of glass could be heard beyond the double doors. Lord Brookshire was no doubt availing himself of the brandy, an ostensible vice of gentlemen.
What Meredith needed was a husband, Eleanor thought, not for the first time. A man worthy of her. Perhaps then she would find the happiness eluding her. Oh, her niece appeared satisfied with her life, busying herself with the care of Oak Run and its inhabitants—not necessarily out of love, Eleanor suspected, but to fill the gap in her life. She knew her niece needed more. Meredith was not like her, a woman content with her spinsterhood and averse to the presence of a meddling man in her life. The girl would never admit such a thing—perhaps she was even unaware of it herself—but Eleanor knew Meredith wanted a child. Someone who would not reject her love as Edmund had, or her father, or even, to some extent—Eleanor had to admit—herself.
Eleanor had long been aware of her limitations. She sorely lacked any maternal instinct and had done a poor job filling the void left by Meredith’s mother. Not only had she been a poor mother substitute, she had barely been the adult, leaning on her niece rather than lending support. When she first arrived in Attingham, Meredith had been such a solemn little girl, trained well at the knee of her father in piety and stoicism. And that unhappy little girl had grown into an unhappy woman.
Taking a fortifying breath, Eleanor vowed to help her niece. Perhaps for the first time. Meredith might not realize what she needed, but she did.
Shoving open the door, she found Lord Brookshire pouring a drink. The dark thunder of his countenance made her hands tremble. Gathering together the fleeting scraps of her courage, she cleared her throat.
He swung around with a glare, a lock of dark hair falling across his brow. “Ah, she sent reinforcements, did she?” He saluted her with his glass. “Never say defeat.”
Eleanor laced her fingers together in an effort to still their shaking. “She does not know I am here, my lord.”
“But you are here to plead on her behalf, yes?” He managed to point at her while holding a bottle in one hand and the snifter in the other. “Let me save you the trouble and send you on your way.”
Settling herself on the sofa, she decided to omit her part in the scheme. “My niece was only trying—”
“The woman needs someone to knock sense into her head. She’s lucky I have no desire to mete out the punishment she truly deserves. Time in prison would be more than appropriate for her.” He downed his brandy and refilled it again, muttering under his breath, “But I would not dream of inflicting her on those poor, hapless guards.”
Eleanor grimaced over his harsh denouncement. On a good day, she found Lord Brookshire intimidating, but in a foul temper, he terrified her. “I can’t fault you for your anger. She does need someone to take her in hand. I’m only an old woman. What power do I have over her? As it is, my time on earth runs short. Meredith needs a husband.” She hardly saw herself as nearing death’s door, but hoped it might arouse Lord Brookshire’s pity.
“She had a husband,” he pointed out.
Dropping her hand from her chest, she said with ill-concealed disgust, “A true husband. A husband who actually resides in the same home with her would be a start.”
“What man would want such a deceitful wife?” Brookshire stabbed his finger toward the ceiling, where Meredith presumably packed.
“She’s not unattractive,” Eleanor defended. “And quite capable of running a household. She’s been left to her own devices for so many years and still managed Oak Run better than any man before her. She would be an asset for any husband.”
“You have described nothing more than a good housekeeper.” He waved his snifter in a small circle. “Now that I know your niece for what she is, I can understand why a husband would abandon her.”
Eleanor gasped. “That is most uncharitable, my lord. Edmund never gave her a chance to be a real wife.”
“Well, no,” Lord Brookshire grudgingly admitted. “He wouldn’t have.”
She tilted her head curiously at his unexpected agreement. “You agree, then?
“I do know a little of my half brother’s…nature.”
“A proper husband and a few children should keep her in check.” She nodded reflectively, as if this were a revelation for her and not a theory sh
e had mulled over for several years. “Meredith would become his responsibility and not yours.”
He considered Eleanor for a long moment. She ducked her eyes from his piercing gaze and held her breath, hoping she had achieved her point. Elated that he appeared to be listening, she decided to push further. “Once married, Meredith would no longer be your responsibility. None of us would.” Her hand fluttered to her throat, indicating her person, should he have forgotten that she was part of the burden.
His snifter stopped halfway to his mouth. “Buyers keepers?” he asked dryly.
“Well, let’s not be vulgar about it, my lord. My niece is not property.”
“You are absolutely correct, ma’am. She is not. She is of age.” He twirled his brandy in the snifter and took a swallow. “She does not have to remarry to free me of responsibility. I can simply declare myself free.”
Eleanor smiled. “That’s easier said than done. Society will look to you for her care and management.”
“I’ve never cared much for what Society dictates.”
Eleanor ignored her little frission of alarm. She had to make him see marriage as the best solution for everyone concerned. “Meredith was married to an earl. With a reasonable dowry, she would be quite a catch for some gentleman. It should not be a difficult matter to wed her off.”
“Have you some poor fool in mind already?”
“No, but the Season starts soon. An excellent opportunity for Meredith to make a suitable match.”
He sat in silence, studying her before shifting his attention to the now empty snifter in his hand. Her knuckles whitened where they gripped the sofa arm.
“Are you suggesting your niece have a Season? Isn’t she a little old for the marriage mart?”
“There are many gentlemen who prefer a mature woman over a child bride. Especially should she possess a respectable dowry. Weren’t you planning to settle something on my niece?” she asked, having already overheard from his own lips that he would.
“I intended to give your niece a one-time settlement in lieu of the jointure my half brother failed to provide. I told her as much.”
She leaned forward. “That could just as easily be her dowry.” From the furrowing of his brows, Eleanor knew he was close to relenting.
“Just think, she would no longer bear your name, no longer share your title.” She leaned back in the chair. “With your name, she would forever be linked to you, whether you like it or not. But then…that might be to our benefit.” Eleanor sighed, tapping her lips in mock consideration, pretending to reconsider her own argument.
And that seemed to do it.
“Very well. I will make the arrangements and send word when you should set out for Town.” He frowned. “I am only doing this to rid myself of your niece,” he reminded crossly. “I’ll not be put through all this trouble for nothing, so she better make a match—and pity the fool.”
She stifled the urge to leap up and hug him. “Oh, she shall, my lord. I will do everything in my power to see that it is done. I cannot wait to tell her the news. Or should you be the one to tell her?”
“By all means, you. I have no desire to see your niece again. Correspondence should serve as adequate communication until she weds.”
“But there is the matter of a sponsor. She was never officially presented. Will you handle the arrangements? I’m afraid I don’t know anyone of sufficient rank capable of gaining Meredith a presentation at court, and she simply won’t be accepted without—”
He waved a hand in a weary manner. “Fine, fine. I’ll see to it. I’ll send word once the arrangements have been made.” A flicker of doubt crossed his face. “I hope this isn’t more trouble than it’s worth.”
Beaming, she quickly assured him, “Look at the long-term gain. And it’s only a brief inconvenience. Soon she will be some other gentleman’s responsibility, her ties to you severed completely.”
The slam of the library doors reverberated behind Meredith, making her wince—even if she was the one responsible for the racket.
“We had an understanding,” she began without ceremony. “You cannot simply command me to marry. This is not the tenth century and you are not my lord and master.” She pulled up short at the sight of Nick asleep on the sofa. His booted feet hung heedlessly over the sofa arm.
He opened his eyes and cringed against the morning sunlight pouring in from the windows. With a groan, he flung an arm over his eyes. “Must you scream and carry on?”
“I am not screaming,” she said, lightly kicking the empty bottle of brandy on the carpet with her slipper. “You’re obviously suffering from the effects of overimbibing, my lord. In your condition a whisper would sound like a scream.”
“Be that as it may, my lady, I would appreciate it if you lowered your voice a spot.” This polite request came from behind her.
She spun around to discover Dr. Swell occupying the chaise behind her and clutching his head. He still wore his garments from the day before—the worse for wear after spending a night in much the same manner as Nick. Another empty bottle littered the floor near him.
“Dr. Swell,” she began with some embarrassment as the events of yesterday flooded her memory. Her hands flew to her no longer padded tummy self-consciously. “Good morning.”
Had Nick explained her deception to him? If not, the good doctor would certainly make the correct deductions now. He would never believe that she had miscarried the night before and was up and about the following morning. There was only one explanation for her appearance this morning. If Nick had not told him already, the physician need only look with his own eyes to learn of her perfidy.
Despite her less than dignified entrance, the gracious hostess revived herself within Meredith. “I am sure the staff prepared a room for you. You did not have to sleep in the library.”
Swell sat up, scratching his dark hair with both hands. The action sent the hair flying in every direction. He studied her through bleary eyes, working his mouth as if it were exceptionally dry. If he noticed she lacked yesterday’s belly, he did not reveal it.
“Nick seemed inclined to sleep here. And it’s a sad, sorry thing for a man to drink alone, so I decided to keep him company.”
She masked her surprise at their familiarity. “How unpardonable of Lord Brookshire not to see to your comforts. You must be famished, Doctor. Shall I ring for a tray?”
“Er, Nick.” Swell ceased his scratching, looking beyond her to Lord Brookshire. “Gonna help a chap out here?” He looked back at her with a somewhat sheepish expression.
“He’s not a physician,” Nick muttered with a bothered, annoyed, rather-be-asleep edge to his voice.
The blunt statement had her whirling around to glare at his prostrate form. He remained motionless, one arm flung over his face, as if he had said nothing of significance.
“What?” She spun back around to face the “alleged” physician. “Who are you, then?”
“Mac Swell. Nick’s business partner.” Mac shrugged uncomfortably as he darted for the door.
“Well! Mister Swell! You…you…” She groped for words scathing enough to hurl at his retreating, cowardly form, but he shut the door behind him before she could manage. Meredith felt tempted to give chase, but then realized the one truly deserving the full force of her wrath was still in the room.
“You’re screaming again,” Nick muttered.
“You’re bloody right I am!” She swung back around, too furious to give thought to her rough language. Hands on hips, she unleashed the full extent of her ire. “How dare you bring that man into my home, tell me he’s a physician, and attempt to have him examine me.”
“It would never have gone that far. I bluffed and won.”
She pounded one fist into her palm, recalling the audacity of Mac Swell’s wink. “I should have known the moment he winked at me.”
“Stop your caterwauling. You never knew what you were up against. I take advantage of people for a living. Now, did you have a reason for barging
in here or can I go back to sleep?”
She fought past her stinging pride and exhaled deeply. There was a larger issue to address than Mac Swell not being a physician. She began calmly, praying the information her aunt had relayed to her was incorrect, a simple misunderstanding. “My aunt informs me that you have decided I must remarry.”
He grunted. Not exactly the denial for which she had been hoping. She smoothed her hands over her starched paramatta skirts, struggling for patience. “Of course, this begs an audience.”
Silence stretched, and she began to suspect that he had fallen back asleep.
“This was not what we had discussed.”
Still no response. She inched closer, bending at the waist, trying to peer at his eyes hidden beneath his arm. He must have heard some movement, for he suddenly moved his arm, looking out at her from slit lids. Practically nose-to-nose, he asked, “You’re still here?”
Her nose twitched, assailed by the stench of alcohol. Straightening, she pursed her mouth in disapproval. “You stink like a brewery.” She pressed the back of her hand to her nose at the offensive smell.
Slowly, he sat up, sliding his Hessian boots to the floor with a heavy sigh. “Lady, you are one royal pain in the ass.” He dropped his head into his hands, rumpled the dark, soft-looking locks and spoke without looking at her. “As to our agreement, I’ve changed my mind. Sending you away to cause further mischief is not nearly as satisfying as marrying you off to someone. Then you become his problem. Not mine.”
Her hands clenched at her sides. “I’d rather be sent away.”
“Indeed?”
The complete apathy of his tone indicated he cared little for her desires, and she wondered a bit desperately what had caused him to change his mind in the course of one night.
“I would prefer to remain unwed,” she continued. “I’ll as good as disappear. I give you my word on it. You need never be burdened with me again. It would be just as final as my marrying.”