"And you knew?" Christiana asked with dismay.
"Of course he needs the dower," Suzette protested, recalling the stories Daniel had told her of his childhood. Surely those couldn't be lies too? Could they? Dear God, she'd believed every word. Mouth tight, she said, "He told me that his mother had sold all their furniture to survive, and even her jewelry and her wedding ring. He said they had no servants, and--"
"That is all true," Richard assured her, appearing relieved to be able to say so. "And when he came of age his mother was pushing him to marry for money. She had worked hard to try to hide their dire straits, convincing society she was just a horrible snob rather than admit she was poor. And everyone believed it. After all, her family is extremely wealthy. But her family turned their backs on her when she married Daniel's father, and she and Daniel were destitute after he died."
Suzette was relieved to hear him verify the story Daniel had told her, but frowned and pointed out, "But you just said he doesn't need my dower."
"He doesn't." Richard ran a hand wearily through his hair. "Daniel blurted the whole tale to me one night, about how poor they were and what his mother had sacrificed and that she now wanted him to marry a girl with money, and quickly." He shrugged. "Of course, I had suspected as much. We were best friends and I had seen hints here and there. I had just been waiting for him to come to me, and when he told me all that, I helped him with investments and--" Richard grimaced and then admitted, "He has almost as much money as I do now. He is rich. He does not need your dower."
"So he never really wanted or needed me," Suzette said miserably.
"He was just trifling with her," Christiana sounded furious, and moved to the bed. Dropping to sit on the side of it, she hugged Suzette tightly.
"I don't believe that," Richard said grimly. "Daniel is an honorable man. I wouldn't be friends with him if I thought otherwise. There must be some explanation."
"What?" Christiana asked grimly.
"I don't know," he admitted with frustration, and then held out his hand. "Let me see the letter."
"No!" Suzette crumpled it in her hand and held it close to her chest. There was no way she was going to let him read about what she'd done in the stables. It had seemed the most beautiful experience in the world at the time, but now seemed cheap and dirty somehow. She'd thrown up her skirts as lightly as a milkmaid and Daniel now loathed her for it. She was ashamed and didn't want everyone to know about her shame.
Richard and Christiana were silent for a moment, and then Richard asked to speak with his wife alone. When Christiana stood and moved to the door with him, the two began to whisper, but Suzette merely curled up in a fetal position on the bed and hugged the letter to her chest. She should burn it, or tear it up, but she just didn't have the energy.
Suzette heard the chamber door open and close and lay staring at the wall. She wasn't sure how long she'd been lying like that, empty and numb, when the door opened and closed again. She didn't open her eyes, but simply listened to the soft pad of slippered feet on the hard boards. Someone settled on the side of the bed and began to rub her back soothingly. She didn't know it was Christiana until she whispered, "All will be well, Suzie. Richard and Robert are going to go after Daniel and see what's what."
Suzette stiffened. Richard and Robert would find out that Daniel had a disgust of her because of her loose behavior. All would know her shame. The thought made her turn sharply to Christiana. "You have to stop them."
Christiana raised her eyebrows. "Why?"
"Because," she hissed, sitting up. "You just have to. I don't want them talking to him."
"Why?" Christiana repeated insistently.
Suzette cursed impatiently and scrambled off the bed to go after Richard herself. She ran downstairs as quickly as she could and then burst out of the inn in time to see Robert and Richard riding out. Her shoulders sagged miserably. By the time she got to the stables and saddled up a horse to follow, they would be long gone and Suzette had no idea where Woodrow was or how to get there so would never catch up to them.
"Suzette, isn't it?"
She glanced around with disinterest, vaguely recognizing the man who paused beside her, but merely shook her head and turned to go back into the inn. Suzette heard him enter behind her and try to hail her again, but she simply ignored him and trudged back upstairs to her room.
When she slipped inside, Christiana was still there, seated on the side of the bed, reading a wrinkled piece of paper. For one moment, Suzette had no idea what it was, but then she recalled the crumpled letter and realized she'd left it behind. Closing the door, she leaned back against it wearily and waited.
Christiana lifted her head, her eyes filled with sorrow as she whispered, "Oh Suzie."
Suzette bowed her head, unable to meet her gaze as shame slid over her.
Daniel awoke to pain. It felt as if his chest were being ripped apart, and for one moment he thought he'd fallen off his horse and some predator was feasting on his wounded flesh. But then he opened his eyes and found himself staring up at a silver-haired woman who still showed signs of the beauty she'd once been. Catharine, Lady Woodrow.
"Mother?" he croaked with confusion, glancing around to see that he was in bed in the master bedroom at Woodrow. "How--?"
"Here." She urged him to sit up and held a cup of liquid to his mouth. As he drank, she said, "Mr. Lawrence was returning from inspecting one of the tenant farms when he came across your horse plodding along with you slumped on its back. He brought you home at once for me to tend."
Daniel nodded at the mention of his assistant and swallowed the liquid in his mouth as she took the cup away. John Lawrence was most competent and he hadn't had any qualms at all about leaving the care of the estate in the man's hands while he traveled to America.
"What happened?" she asked solemnly.
"I was shot."
"Yes, I had noticed," she said dryly. "In fact, I bandaged you up. But by whom were you shot?"
Daniel shook his head wearily. "I didn't see. I was coming home to collect you, and I cut through the woods." He frowned, thinking of the accident with the carriage when they'd thought the spokes cut halfway through, and then the carriage that had nearly run him and Richard down. They'd thought those to be attacks aimed at Richard by George's killer trying to finish the job. However, George's killer had claimed to know he'd succeeded in killing George and hadn't been interested in killing Richard at all, and Daniel believed him. It had made him suspect that perhaps those other two incidents had not been aimed at Richard at all. The fact that he'd now been shot seemed to verify his suspicions. He didn't say that, however. He had no desire to upset his mother, so muttered, "Perhaps a hunter mistook me for wild game through the trees and shot."
Lady Woodrow frowned at the suggestion, but let it go for now and asked, "Coming home to collect me for what?"
"Oh." Daniel blinked as he recalled exactly what he had been doing. If he didn't return, Suzette would worry herself silly and send a search party out for him. Hell, knowing Suzette, she'd probably come after him herself, and then she'd see Woodrow and know--
"What time is it? How long have I been here?" he asked, sitting up and wincing at the pain it sent through his back and stomach.
"Lie down," his mother ordered sharply. "And answer my question. Collect me for what?"
"My wedding," he answered, but decided to lie back for just a little bit under her insistence. Just for a minute or two, but then he had to--
"Your wedding?" Lady Woodrow asked icily.
Daniel glanced at his mother warily. She only ever used that particular tone when very upset. And she did indeed appear upset now. Upset, shocked, horrified, bemused, perhaps even a hint relieved and happy, but mostly upset.
"Your wedding to whom? And how have you managed to plan a wedding without even mentioning it to me or my catching wind of it?" she asked grimly.
"Ah, well, it's not exactly planned as such," he said uncomfortably. "I mean it is, but it's not a big do.
We are going to Gretna Green, and--"
"Gretna Green!" she squawked, and then pressing one hand to her chest, gasped, "She is with child."
"No, of course she's not," Daniel said with irritation.
"Then why the rush to Gretna Green?" Lady Woodrow asked at once.
Daniel shook his head helplessly. "It is complicated, Mother."
She eyed him narrowly. "Then perhaps you should take your time explaining it to me."
Daniel glanced away, and then said, "Her name is Suzette, and she--well, you will like her. She is much like you, strong and smart and sweet but with a temper. Suzette is nothing like the other women of the ton," he said with a smile. "She never bites her tongue for politeness's sake. She blurts out what she's feeling and you always know where you stand with her. She does not smile to your face and then gossip and criticize you behind her fan."
"I see," she said softly. "This Suzette sounds special."
"She is," he assured her solemnly. "And I hope the two of you grow to be very good friends. She grew up in the country with just her sisters and her father. Her mother died when she was quite young and she hasn't had a mother's guidance, so she may not be as well trained at some household things as most ladies, but that doesn't matter. It would be nice if you could like her for me."
"I'm sure we shall be grand friends," Lady Woodrow said soothingly.
Daniel nodded and then tried to sit up, but she pushed firmly on his shoulders to keep him down.
"Stay put, son. You have been shot," she said sternly.
Daniel shook his head. "I have to get back. They are all waiting for me at the inn."
"They?" she asked.
"Suzette, her sisters, their father, Richard and a fellow named Robert Langley. They are waiting for me to bring you back. They will be worried." He frowned and glanced around. "What time is it? I do not even know how long I have been gone. They may already be looking for me."
"Why ever did you not bring them all with you?" she asked, still trying to push him flat on the bed.
"Oh, er . . . well," Daniel sighed, and sank back on the bed to admit, "Suzette thinks I am marrying her for her dower."
Lady Woodrow blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"I said--"
"I heard what you said," she snapped, interrupting him. "Now, please explain exactly why the poor young girl thinks you would marry her for her dower."
Daniel winced at her tone. Every word was razor sharp and precise. She was angry. Grimacing, he said, "Well, Suzette has a rather large dower, huge really, and she wanted a husband who needed money and--" He paused abruptly as he saw her expression becoming befuddled, and sighed. "It is a long story, Mother. Just suffice it to say I couldn't let her see how well set we are financially or she might not have agreed to marry me."
"That makes absolutely no sense at all, Daniel," Lady Woodrow said impatiently. "Women look for a good provider. They want a husband with wealth."
"You didn't," he pointed out with amusement.
"Yes, well I am not like most women of the ton," she said with a wry smile.
"Neither is Suzette," Daniel assured her solemnly.
"So you mentioned. Still I--lie down," she snapped when he tried to rise again. "You will lie there and rest and explain this to me."
"There is no time. I need to get--"
"You need to rest and recover. I will send word to the inn, and--"
"No," he cried, grabbing her hand when she stood up. "She will come here. You can't let her come here."
Catherine Woodrow raised her eyebrows, but sat back down. "Then you had best explain why. Or I will send for her and get to the bottom of this myself."
Groaning, Daniel closed his eyes briefly, but then opened them again and glanced to the door as a knock sounded.
"Come in," his mother called, and the Woodrow butler opened the door to look in.
"My lady, the Lords Fairgrave and Langley are demanding to see Lord Woodrow, and insist they will not wait any longer to do so." He grimaced and pointed out, "They have been waiting two hours. I fear I will not be able to keep them downstairs much longer."
"Why didn't you tell me they were here?" Daniel asked his mother with irritation and then glanced back to the door as the butler cleared his throat.
Once the man had his attention, the butler allowed the corners of his mouth to curve just the slightest bit before getting his face under control and back to the expressionless visage of a proper butler as he said, "It is good to see you awake and recovering, my lord. We have all been quite worried since Mr. Lawrence brought you home."
"Thank you, Watkins," Daniel murmured, and then cleared his throat and asked, "Are Richard and Langley alone?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Thank God," he muttered, sitting up again. This time his mother did not try to stop him and he said, "Please, send them up."
"Daniel. Please explain what you have been up to and why this young lady you are to marry thinks you are poor, when you have worked so hard these last ten years to ensure we are not. None of this is making sense."
He grimaced. "It's really a quite convoluted story, Mother."
"I don't care. I have time."
"Yes, but--" Fortunately, Daniel was saved from trying to put her off further by the arrival of Richard and Robert. The two men must have jogged up the stairs to arrive so quickly. They didn't bother to knock, but strode right into the room, both looking quite grim faced and even angry until they got a look at him.
"What the devil happened to you?" Richard asked with amazement as he led Robert to the bed.
"I was shot," Daniel said.
Richard frowned, but Robert snapped, "It was probably the Fates punishing you."
"Punishing me for what?" he asked with surprise.
"For breaking Suzette's heart," he growled. "She was crushed when she got your letter."
"What letter?" Daniel asked, glancing from one man to the other with confusion.
"The letter you left saying you had changed your mind," Robert answered, but was starting to sound a little less angry. His expression turning uncertain, he asked, "You did send a letter to the inn for Suzette saying you were breaking it off and wouldn't marry her?"
Daniel shook his head firmly. "I never sent any such letter."
When Robert and Richard just stared at him blankly, Daniel's mother said, "I can assure you he left no such letter. He has just told me he'd come to collect me to attend his wedding and has been trying to get up to return to the inn almost since he awoke. He appears quite eager to marry the young woman."
"Hmm," Richard muttered, his expression troubled as he glanced to Robert.
"I think someone had best start explaining things," Lady Woodrow said firmly. "I hardly think it was an accident that this young lady received a letter breaking the engagement and my son was shot, all at the same time. There must be some connection."
Chapter Twelve
For one blessed moment when she first woke, Suzette didn't recall anything, but then she became aware of her sore throat and gritty eyes, and recalled crying herself to sleep and why, and a small pitiful sigh slid from her lips as memory came crashing in. She was a fallen woman, abandoned on the morning of her wedding and left sullied and unmarriageable. At least, most men would think so.
"You're awake."
Suzette stilled and glanced to the girl who had apparently been seated by the fireplace. Lisa. She was standing now and moving toward her.
"How do you feel?"
Suzette shrugged and sat up, avoiding her gaze as she did, but then she asked, "I suppose you hate me too?"
"No, of course not, and neither does Christiana," Lisa said at once, hurrying the last few feet to sit on the bed next to her. "You ordered her from the room before she could say anything. She isn't angry with you. She understands. You love Daniel and wanted to express that physically. It's natural."
"I don't love him," Suzette muttered.
Lisa looked at her with patent disbelief. "Suzette, y
ou have been following the man around like a puppy for days now. And if you do not love him, you are certainly doing a very good impression of heartbreak."
Frowning, Suzette lowered her head. She was sure she didn't love him. She couldn't. And yet the pain when she'd read the letter, the ache in her chest just at the thought of never seeing him again, the anguish as she'd wept . . .
"You love him," Lisa said quietly. "I know you. You have probably been telling yourself it was just convenience, and handy that the two of you had needs that fit each other, one needing a bride with a dower, the other needing a husband in need of a dower . . ." She shook her head. "But your eyes lit up every time he walked into the room and you hung on his every word. And the passion you felt and shared with him . . ." She shrugged. "That is love. You do love him."
"For all the good it does me," she muttered with disgust.
"Oh," Lisa hugged her tightly. "I felt sure he loved you too, Suzette. Maybe he is just afraid--or something. Maybe--"
"Maybe my loose behavior disgusted him," she said dryly. "Maybe he fears I am like this with every man."
"Oh, I am sure that is not true," she said, her expression troubled. "He would have to know it was your first time. The streams of blood and horrible pain would have--"
"There were no streams of blood or horrible pain," Suzette said unhappily. "In fact, there was hardly any pain. A little pinch perhaps, and an uncomfortable stretching sensation and that is all. As for streams of blood . . ." She shook her head. In truth, she wasn't sure if there had been any blood at all. It had been dark in the stables. Certainly there hadn't been streams of it. That would have been noticeable.
"Oh." Lisa bit her lip. "It was your first time?"
Her head snapped up, eyes stabbing her sister.
"Of course it was," Lisa backtracked at once, and then said, "Well, Fanny must have been wrong then. Or perhaps it is different for everyone."
Suzette shook her head with disgust. "If you, who have known me all my life and know I have not been keeping company with men before this, doubts me, why would he not? He probably thinks I have been with half the royal navy."
"Why would he think that? We live nowhere near the coast," Lisa said with confusion.
Suzette glared at her and then shifted to get off the bed, crawling around her to do so.